


General Laksurimanan’s Uprising

by NickelModelTales



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1850s, Adventure, Ballet, Belly Dancing, Colonialism, F/F, F/M, Hypnotism, India, Magic, Master/Slave, Mind Control, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Politics, Porn With Plot, Revolution, Romance, Sexual Slavery, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 21:43:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales
Summary: In 1858, the British Empire annexes India, and the adventurous young Cecilia is swept up in the hunt for an elusive Indian fugitive.  Before she knows it, Cecilia is hypnotized and enslaved as a dancer for an evil purpose.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadowmirrow](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Shadowmirrow).



> A long-time reader challenged me with a very specific premise: a married couple goes to India, where the wife is hypnotized by magical means. She is separated from her husband, and forced to become a belly dancer. I suggested setting the story in the nineteenth century.

**_London, 1857_ **

Cecilia Wheaton grimaced again, wishing she could have just a little more morphine.  Her hospital bed was even more uncomfortable than ever, and her knee was positively screaming.  She had never known such pain.

Was it only last week that she’d been dancing the title role in _La Esmeralda_?  The most-coveted role for any ballerina in London?  How the crowd had cheered for her on her opening night!  Even her disapproving father had been forced to stand and applaud when she took her bows.  The ovation still rang in her ears.

But that was before Jules LaMarche, playing Phoebus, had failed to properly catch her on the second night.  She’d leapt into her _Grand Jete_ , arching perfectly through the air.  Foolish Jules hesitated, and suddenly Cecilia was descending without support.  She’d landed on her ankle too hard… and everyone on stage had heard her knee pop.

The performance was instantly over.  The horrified patrons had been wordless as Cecilia was carried off the stage, screaming and in disgrace.  Even now, more than six days after her humiliation, the dancer felt as if the whole experience must have been a fleeting dream.

But now, here she was, lying in the Royal London Hospital’s women’s ward, one of forty sad-looking lady patients.  No-one special at all.

It was all too much to absorb.  At twenty-one years old and an acclaimed ballerina, Cecilia was easily one of the most beautiful and celebrated women in all of London.  With a flawless complexion, ruby lips, a thin nose, and large hazel eyes which normally sparkled, her sheer beauty upstaged even the most worshipped actresses and models of the day.  Her thick brown hair, usually tightly braided, tumbled about her forehead and shoulders in a defiant, wild manner.  Blessed with a naturally thin and graceful (yet luscious) figure, Cecilia was used to men staring at her wherever she went.

And even thrust into a drab, shapeless hospital gown, with disheveled hair, and coated in sweat, Cecilia was still a priceless beauty.  She’d noted how the male doctors and orderlies stole longing glances at her.

But the young woman’s mind was removed from such matters.  Her knee screamed in excruciation.  Cecilia gripped her novel, willing herself to be transported far, far away into the narrative.  She read:

**_The young Lady Regina Heartstone stared up at the grandeur of the Sultan’s Palace._ **

**_“O, what an amazing sight to beholde!” said the nineteen-year-old, still standing next to the attentive Miss Prichard, her stern governess.  “I have dreamed of such a place, but never thought to stand within one!  And as a guest!  O my!”_ **

**_“But O beware the gaze of the Dark Vizers, my Lady,” warned the Abd Sahabal, glancing about with wary nerves.  “They are wizards who use dark, terrible magics to enslave lovely young ladies like yourself, and once you are bewitched by their machinations, only the kiss of True Love may save-_ **

It was no use.  Cecilia’s knee hurt too much.  Even a Regina Heartstone adventure simply wasn’t captivating enough to distract her.

In desperation, the young woman snatched the newspaper off her bedside table.  The headline article looked promising:

**_UPRISING IN CENTRAL INDIA ON THE VERGE OF DEFEAT_ **

**_From Bombay, Lucknow, Kanpur.  Dated October 13 th, 1857_ **

**_The Central India Field Force, under Sir Hugh Rose, has advanced on the rebel stronghold at the central Indian city of Gwalior.  While it appears at this time that the rebels have not looted the city as expected, they have traveled south, seized the Jhansi Fort, and remain within that fortification.  Military witnesses estimate they have 4,000 sepoys – musketmen or rilfemen – and more than 500 cavalry._ **

**_Of most concern to British officers is the whereabouts of General Laksurimanan, the mysterious Indian who united the regional Ranis (princes) under a common banner.  The general was seen by loyal Indians entering Jhansi Fort, but conflicting reports say he is rallying rebel forces far in the northern region of-_ **

“Cecilia!” snapped a male voice from across the ward.

The young woman jumped.  Her father, Henry Wheaton III, was striding towards her, his bushy moustache quivering with indignation.  The other lady patients looked up from their embroidering or books with salacious interest.

“Hello, papa,” Cecilia managed.  Her knee hurt even more.

Scowling, Mr. Wheaton yanked the newspaper from his daughter’s fingers.  “Honestly, girl,” he growled, “the news these days, it is not a woman’s business.  It would only upset you.”

“I’m sorry, papa,” Cecilia grimaced, unwilling to argue.  “My other reading was just too-“

“You should stick with trite diversions,” harrumphed Mr. Wheaton, thrusting another romantic novel at her.  “They’re **_intended_** for the female brain to comprehend, after all.”

Despite her suffering, Cecilia shot an acidic glare at her father.  The old man had always wanted a son, and never forgave Cecilia for being born into the wrong gender.

“Well, hello, hello,” a second male voice said, sounding cheerful.

Cecilia sighed.  Dr. Gaskell, a fat but jolly fellow, appeared at Cecilia’s bedside, already inspecting her charts.  “You seem quite well this morning,” he said absently.

The young woman wanted to throttle the patronizing fellow.  Her agony was persistent and getting worse.

Mr. Wheaton stepped aside as the doctor pushed back the bedsheets.  He leaned forward to inspect Cecilia’s knee.  The poor joint was an angry purple and quite swollen.

“Oh dear, oh my,” Dr. Gaskell murmured.  “I say, this must hurt.”

“Yes,” Cecilia grunted.  She managed a strained smile.  “Doctor, how long do you think recovery will take…?” she said, hoping she didn’t sound too impatient.

“Hmm,” mused Dr. Gaskell.  “Very hard to say.  You’ve badly torn the muscles that hold the kneecap in place, you know.  I’d say… at best…”

Cecilia held her breath.

“Six months,” the doctor pronounced.  “With luck.”

“Six **_months?!?_** ” wailed the young woman.

“Cecilia!” snapped her father.

In six months, the London Ballet’s season would be over.  The company would begin auditions for newer, younger dancers.  At best, Cecilia would be pushed back to the bottom of the dancers’ pecking order.

“But…” she gasped, “but I’ve got to get well sooner, much sooner!  Doctor, there must be something you can do?”

“I’m afraid not,” Dr. Gaskell replied, still wearing that infuriating smile.  “My dear, your knee will never be the same again.  Not with an injury of this kind.”

Cecilia felt as if a bull had kicked her squarely in the stomach.

“ ** _Never?!?_** ” she squealed.  “Doctor, I’m… I’m a ballerina, I simply must dance if-“

“I’m quite sorry, my dear,” the doctor clucked, gently replacing the bedsheets.  “Your injury is simply too serious.”

As if Cecilia wasn’t in the room, Dr. Gaskell turned to Mr. Wheaton.  “You are a librarian by trade, sir?” he asked.

“At the Royal College,” nodded Mr. Wheaton.

“Very well,” smiled the doctor.  “I assume you can muster a sizeable dowry?  A young woman like Cecilia, who will certainly never dance again, should be married off as quickly as possible.  The sooner she is pregnant, the sooner she’ll forget about her former life.  That’s my advice.”

“Quite right, quite right,” Mr. Wheaton agreed.

Cecilia felt a stab of horror.  “Papa!” she exclaimed.

Her father waved her off.  “This whole ballet thing was her mother’s idea,” he said.  “I always thought it quite foolish.”

“Oh no, sir,” Dr. Gaskell disagreed.  “London needs good dancers.  It shows the world that we are leaders not just in industry and colonization, but also in the arts!  What good is the British Empire if we can’t demonstrate how superior we are in all manner of human endeavors?”

“Yes, quite right,” Cecilia said, trying to smile over her pain.  “Now if I could get some more morphine-“

“But once a girl can no longer dance,” Dr. Gaskell continued, indicating Cecilia, “well, she has no further purpose, correct?  So best to put her to a woman’s work, I say.  Best to wed her off and let her bear children.  That’s important for the empire, too.”

“Doctor-“ said Cecilia desperately.

“You rest now,” Dr. Gaskell instructed, actually patting Cecilia on the cheek.  “I’m sure your father will find you a suitable husband.”

“Actually, I already have a fine fellow in mind,” Mr. Wheaton remarked, smoothing his moustache.  “The son of my old friend from university.  The lad’s an accomplished newspaper reporter, quite well-known for his interviews with Her Majesty herself.”

“Well, well!” Dr. Gaskell said, impressed.  “He interviewed Queen Victoria?  That’s a worthy match indeed.”

“Papa…!” Cecilia pleaded.  This was all happening so sickeningly fast.

“You see, my dear?” said Dr. Gaskell, beaming down at Cecilia once more.  “In no time at all, you’ll be a wife and mother.  Isn’t that grand?  Why, you might even be well enough to not need a cane for your wedding day!”

The two men chuckled.  Mr. Wheaton slapped the doctor on the back.

“I’ll check on you again in a few days,” Dr. Gaskell told Cecilia, replacing her chart and already leaving.  “Until then, rest well…!”

And then the two men were gone.  Neither of them glanced back at Cecilia.

The young woman sat in her bed, stricken.  The gaze of every woman patent rested on her.

Cecilia felt as if she’d been thrown off a bridge.  Her mind reeled.  She would **_never_** dance again?  She was sentenced to become… **_someone’s wife?!?_**

In complete despair, the former ballerina sunk her head into her hands and sobbed.

*** *** ***


	2. The Journey to Jhansi

**_Bombay, India_ **

**_One year later…_ **

The locomotive shuddered once, delivering a jolt to everyone on board.  Cecilia – now Mrs. Clement Irvington – nearly tumbled over in the passenger car’s corridor.

Her husband, of course, had not noticed.  “Its this **_exciting_** …!” Clement exclaimed yet again, his thin face flushed with delight.  He stooped to peer into the windows of the traveling compartments, vainly seeking two empty seats.

Cecilia steadied herself with one gloved hand, and resisted the urge to glare at her scatterbrained husband.  Clement was eight years older than she was, but **_honestly_** , the man had the composure and attentiveness of a child.  Sometimes Cecilia felt more like his mother than his wife.

Tall, lanky, and constantly awkward, Clement was a human scarecrow.  He fit poorly into his brown suitcoat, travel boots, and top hat… but at least these clothes were of the correct fashion.  Clement’s muttonchop sideburns were far too bushy, his nose far too long, his Adam’s apple far too big for the young man to ever be considered handsome.  But his boyish brown eyes shown with an eager light, betraying the childlike wonder through which Clement viewed the world.

The engagement had been brief.  Cecilia’s father had moved swiftly, and not even a month after being released from the hospital, the poor young woman had found herself in a white gown, standing with Clement before Father McHenry and the alter of King’s Church.  She had only met her husband twice before that day.  She moved into the Irvington’s South London manor later that very day.

But three weeks after the wedding, Clement announced that he was restless.  “I want to see the world!” he declared to Cecilia and then to his crestfallen parents.  “I’m tired of reporting in London.  I need a change!”

It so happened that India was undergoing change, too.  The rebellion against the East Indian Trading Company had been firmly put down, and now Parliament had passed the Government of India Act, officially extending Queen Victoria’s direct rule over all of India.  The Union Jack flew high over Bombay!  British businesses were extending their reach deep into the subcontinent!  The local maharajas were extending their allegiance to Her Majesty… or else.  It was a new dawn for the British Empire.

Taking advantage of the situation, Clement had convinced his editor that the London Times needed its best correspondents right in the thick of things.  Before poor Cecilia knew it, her maid was packing her belongings into a trunk, and then she and Clement were boarding the SS _Majestic_ , bound for India itself!  There had barely been time to inform her outraged father and bid him good-bye.

And now here Cecilia was, on an overcrowded passenger train, racing into the heart of an alien country, wishing her foolish husband had secured two seats **_before_** boarding the train.

The young woman sighed and straightened her back, determined to appear as ladylike as possible.  As she composed herself, several of the male passengers within the seating compartments slid an admiring glance over her figure.

Life after the London Ballet had not been easy for Cecilia.  She desperately missed the competitive sisterhood among the dancers, the frenzied rehearsals, the shameless gossip, the attention of the young men who haunted the stage door.  And especially the applause.  She missed it all.

The young woman had done her best to stay in shape, still performing her rigorous exercise routines every morning.  And while this kept her tummy flat and her muscles toned, Cecilia had still put on a little weight, mostly in her chest and hips, which gave her a stunning, curvy figure.  Even now, the men passengers were sweeping their eyes over those amplified curves, conquering up all manner of sinful fantasies.

Clement peered into the last compartment; every seat was full.

“Come, my darling,” Clement beamed, oblivious.  “We’ll simply have to move to the next car.  Isn’t this **_exciting?_** ”

Without hesitation, the young man moved to the outer sliding door and threw it open.  Ignoring the harsh winds and rattling train, he leapt across the gap, and soon was plunging into the next car.

Cecilia grimaced.  The connections between these railway cars were designed for men in flat shoes.  For women in petticoats and high heels, jumping over this little chasm, with the train shaking and the air rushing at you, was nothing short of terrifying.

Nonetheless, Cecilia was not one to quaver.  She gritted her teeth, pushed her way through the outer door, and then found herself outside, the hot Indian air whipping her face.  A good three-foot gap between the two cars yawned before her feet.

“Bother,” the young woman muttered to herself.  Clement, oblivious to his wife’s dilemma, had already vanished into the next car.

So poor Cecilia took a step back, then rushed forward.  Her dancer’s legs, sturdy and powerful, launched her through the air.

But then the train shuddered as the track leaned into a tight curve.  Cecilia’s feet landed unevenly on the opposite car’s metal deck, and her bad knee spasmed in pain.  The young woman careened backward.

Cecilia screamed.  Her quick hands clamped onto the railing.  Willpower and sheer luck saved her from toppling to certain doom.

It took a moment before the young woman was willing to relax.  Her heart pounded faster than the locomotive.  She closed her eyes and let out a slow and shaky breath.

She **_hated_** India.  Well, she hated to have been forced on this insufferable journey.  Clement was a fine man, true, but never once did he seem to think of Cecilia’s well-being.  The naïve boy assumed her adventurous spirit was as alive and bright as his own.

That was Cecilia’s marriage.  Clement leapt over the chasms without once looking back to make sure she was following.

The train shuddered again as the engineer poured on more speed.  The Indian countryside rushed past as the locomotive turned due northeast, now heading toward the city of Jhansi.

Swallowing her wounded dignity, Cecilia pulled herself upright and clamored into the passenger car.

Clement was already halfway down the corridor, hopefully peering into every compartment.  “Blast it all,” he declared.  “They’re all full here, too.  Well, except…”

The young man paused before the windows of a deluxe suite, eyeing the luxurious accommodations… and the ten spare seats on beaten leather couches.  Only a middle-aged Englishman and his Indian manservant sat within.  The Englishman was absorbed in his newspaper.

“Drat and dratted!” Clement declared as his young and beautiful wife approached.  “Well, we didn’t pay for first class, so I suppose we daren’t sit in there.  Hmm.”

As Cecilia hurried to her husband’s side, the wealthy Englishman glanced up from his paper.  Through the window, his lustful gaze swarmed over Cecilia’s trim but alluring figure.

“Darling,” Cecilia pleaded, grasping her husband’s arm.  “There are a few scattered seats in the other compartments.  Perhaps if we implored on our fellow travelers’ better nature-“

“Pish-posh!” frowned Clement.  “We’ll simply investigate the next car, is all.  Come now!  Isn’t this **_exciting_** …!”

And before Cecilia could protest, her husband was bolting up the corridor again.

“Darling!” she cried out, fighting exasperation.

At that moment, the glass doors of the deluxe compartment slid open.  The Indian manservant stood before Cecilia, bowing slightly at the hip.

“If _sahib_ and _sahiba_ would allow,” the refined Indian murmured, “my master invites you to travel with him.”

*** *** ***

The compartment was mercifully cool, and smelled faintly of pipe smoke.  As Cecilia entered, she was surprised at the thick carpet and silver trim in the oak sidings.

The Englishman rose to kiss her hand, moving a little too close to do so.  “Geoff Turpin, Special Envoy for Her Majesty, madame,” he introduced himself.  And then he pointedly looked down at Cecilia’s breasts.

“Mr. Turpin,” the beautiful young woman said coolly, then yanked back her hand.  She sat down quickly, if only to put some distance between herself and her host.

Cecilia made a careful assessment of the leering Mr. Turpin.  He was older gentleman, perhaps in his mid-forties.  Barrel-chested, with a broad face and sharp Roman nose, Mr. Turpin had a carefully-groomed haircut and moustache.  He wore an elegant, tailor-made suit, black and crisp, clearly customized for his stocky frame.  A monocle glinted over one of his beady, brown eyes.  And although his legs were thick and sturdy, the man clutched a cane, topped with a brass handle shaped like an elephant’s head.  As he absently fingered that elephant, the man kept his gaze latched onto Cecilia with gaudy appreciation.

“My goodness,” Clement exclaimed, stumbling into the compartment.  He glanced about in wonder.

“Welcome, sir,” Her Majesty’s Envoy said, and the two men exchanged introductions and handshakes.  “Please, sit down.”

Clement sat next to his wife.  Cecilia allowed him to take her hand, if only because the gesture would remind Mr. Turpin that she was a married woman.

“Azad,” The Royal Envoy said to the manservant.  “Shut the door.”  There was no respect in his voice.

Mr. Azad, a tall and gaunt fellow, moved to obey.  It was impossible to guess his age, but Cecilia thought the Indian man must be in his early thirties.  While he was careful to wear a neutral expression, Azad’s eyes were focused and intent.  He was clearly a highly intelligent person, Cecilia realized, and doing his best to hide his intellect from his piglike master.

Mr. Turpin sat directly across from Cecilia, his eyes once again fastening onto her body.  The older fellow actually licked his lips!  Inwardly, Cecilia shuddered.

Mr. Azad resumed his seat next to the window; he watched the countryside roll past.

“Well now,” complimented Clement, still oblivious to Mr. Turpin’s horrid manners.  “Special Envoy for the Crown!  How **_exciting_** , sir.  You must be most important to the colonial effort.”

“You might say that sir, you might,” Mr. Turpin huffed, his voice betraying stuffy pride.  “I was appointed by the Foreign Ministry, mostly because someone representing the Crown must keep an eye on central India.  Especially after the Uprising.”

“My word,” Clement breathed.  “Isn’t that **_exciting!_** ”

Cecilia wanted to gag.  Mr. Turpin was pompous in the extreme, radiating arrogance and distain.

“Tell me sir,” Mr. Turpin said, fingering his elephant-head cane, “how is it you and your lovely wife have come to India?”

“I’m a correspondent from the Times of London, sir,” replied Clement.  “India is where all the important stories are happening, you know.  Reader interest in at an all-time high.”

Turpin snorted.  “The Times covers little very outside of London accurately, if you ask me.”  He shifted in his seat.  “Still, your name is familiar, sir.  Irvington, Irvington…” he mused out loud.  “Perhaps I have read…?”

Suddenly the older man snapped his fingers.  “Of course!” he exclaimed.  “ ** _Clement_** Irvington?  Why, my word, sir, you interviewed Queen Victoria herself!  Why would you leave such a post to travel to the outer realms of India?”

“Oh, but here is where the best stories are, sir,” Clement said, somewhat defensively.  “Take the Uprising, for instance.  That General Laksurimanan, he came from the Ajmer or Jaipur regions, did he not?  Well, they never found his body after his armies were defeated.  Perhaps-“

“General Laksurimanan was shot and killed in the Battle of Gwalior,” Mr. Turpin frowned.  “I saw the military reports myself.”

“Ah,” replied Clement, his eyes lighting up, “but our reporting suggests that the Army records couldn’t possibly be accurate.  The Battle of Gwalior-“

“See here, my good man,” huffed Mr. Turpin.  “Are you implying that the general still lives?”

“It is quite possible,” Clement said.

The Royal Envoy snorted.  “Not possible, sir.  Not possible.  And even if he was alive, what matter?  The white man has proved himself the military superior to all other races.  If General Laksurimanan were to somehow raise another army – a preposterous notion – then Her Majesty’s forces would crush him all the faster.  The Indians, they have no understanding of modern warfare.”

“Take Azad here,” Mr. Turpin said, indicating his manservant.  “Azad has spent half his life in the British Isles.  Educated at Eton, for Lands’ sakes.  There is no finer specimen of the Indian race than he.  And just look at him!  Do you think **_this man_** could possibly understand something as complex as military strategy?  Of course not.  None of his race could.”

Cecilia, repulsed by Mr. Turpin’s grotesque ranting, flicked a quick glance at Mr. Azad.  The Indian manservant sat perfectly still, staring out the window.  His face was a mask of stone.

“It is the natural order of things,” went on Mr. Turpin.  “The white man’s burden.  The inferiors exist to be dominated by the strong.  The British Empire prospers because it is guided by great men.  And such great men take what they want.”

With these last words, Mr. Turpin returned to staring at Cecilia’s body.  She could feel his imagination stripping off her clothes, layer by layer.

When confronted by a prejudiced creature like Mr. Turpin, Victorian women were expected to remain silent and reserved.  But Cecilia could hold her tongue no longer.

“Tell me, Mr. Turpin,” she said evenly, “you were appointed as an **_envoy_** to the Maharaja of Jhansi, is that correct?”

“Yes, quite,” replied the older man.

“An envoy is merely a messenger… are they not?” Cecilia asked delicately.

Mr. Turpin’s smirk clouded.  “My dear young lady,” he grunted, “you fail to grasp the New Day in India.  Yes, I am an envoy, but I speak on the Queen’s behalf.  If the Maharaja knows what’s good for him, he’ll follow my every instruction.”  The stocky man thumped his cane once, for emphasis.  “Or there will be consequences.”

Cecilia couldn’t resist one more barb:  “Your confidence is notable, sir.  I hope it isn’t misplaced.”

“Now see here,” huffed Mr. Turpin.  “We are discussing politics, madam, and that is not a topic which the female brain can comprehend.”

“Queen Victoria might disagree,” replied Cecilia casually.

Clement laughed, completely failing to read the situation.  “Ah, darling,” he said merrily, “you would have made a fine debater.”  To Mr. Turpin, he explained, “Cecilia here was once a dancer in the London Ballet, you see.  She is very much accustomed to self-expression.”

At these words, Mr. Azad’s head snapped around.  He now studied Cecilia with interest.

“I see,” Mr. Turpin huffed, his face a little red.  “Well, some advice for you, young Irvington.  Women, even pretty young things like your wife, are to be seen but not heard.  Perhaps in London, where morals are loose and customs mean nothing, it is fashionable for a woman to challenge her betters.  But not in India.  Oh, no.”  To Cecilia, he growled, “You should learn to hold your tongue, girl.”

Cecilia held her head high… but she said nothing.

The Royal Envoy thumped his cane on the floor once more.  For Mr. Turpin, the walking stick was not for balance.  It was a symbol of power.  Cecilia read the man plainly enough.

Mr. Azad leaned over, murmuring into his employer’s ear.

“Hmmgh,” the older Englishman mumbled.  “Yes.  Quite right.  Tell me, Mr. Irvington, where are you and your desirable wife staying while in Jhansi?”

“Oh, the Creststone Hotel, sir,” replied Clement.  “The Times has arranged-“

“Begging your pardon, _sahib_ ,” Mr. Azad said softly, “but the Creststone is not suitable for the young master and the _sahiba_.”

Surprised, Clement asked, “Oh?”

“ _Tilachatta_ ,” explained the manservant.

“Vermin!” translated Mr. Turpin.  “Heh.  Azad probably means the locals, don’t you, Azad?”  The Royal Envoy laughed heartedly as his cruel joke.  “No, no, he’s quite right.  You – and your beautiful wife – shall not stay at the Creststone.  You’ll stay as my guests, at the Maharaja’s palace.”

An alarm sounded in Cecilia’s mind.  “Darling,” she said softly yet urgently to her husband, “we don’t want to impose on the Maharaja, nor on Mr. Turpin.  Perhaps we should-“

“Nonsense!” Mr. Turpin harrumphed.  “Of course the Maharaja will accommodate you, should I insist upon it.  And I will!  Azad is quite correct; you shall be my guests.”

“Darling…” Cecilia muttered to Clement.

Her husband, however, was grinning from ear to ear.  “Staying at the Maharaja’s palace!” he exclaimed.  “At Ratiramshree Palace itself!  Why… isn’t that **_exciting!_** ”

The decision had been made.  Resigned to defeat, Cecilia slouched a little in her seat, shooting an acid glare at Mr. Azad.

The Indian manservant gazed back at her coolly, then returned to staring out the window.

*** *** ***

Once the train arrived in Jhansi Railway Station, Mr. Azad assumed control.  The manservant spoke rapidly with a station manager, and instantly, a small army of skinny, barefoot, bare-chested men appeared.  Mr. Azad put them all to work, loading luggage and crates onto a sturdy, large-wheeled carriage.  Before Cecilia could protest, her and Clement’s trunks were seized and strapped onto the carriage’s rear platform.

“Come then,” Mr. Turpin said mildly, indicating that the two young newlyweds were to climb into the carriage’s lush traveling compartment.

“Isn’t this **_exciting_** ,” murmured Clement, as he scrambled aboard.  As usual, he went first and forgot to offer Cecilia his hand.

But Mr. Turpin was ready to be chivalrous.  “My dear,” he smirked at Cecilia, and moved to help her climb inside.

The young woman leapt after her husband, before Mr. Turpin could touch her.

*** *** ***

Jhansi was a small city, nestled on the Terai Plains, and not far from the Betwa River.  There were three central structures that a traveler noticed instantly.  The Jhansi Railway Station, an ugly structure of steel and brick, greeted visitors on the city’s southern border.  The old Jhansi Fort glared at the surrounding countryside from atop Bangara Hill.  And most notable of all, Ratiramshree Palace stood proudly to the east, a spectacle of ornately-carved stone.  Lined with skinny towers and a massive, cream-colored dome in the center, the castle overlooked the city with a regal air.  Cecilia thought that the structure looked like a gigantic crown.

The carriage dove into Jhansi’s narrow, dusty streets, scattering locals and chickens in all directions.  Cecilia peered out of the windows, surprised to see so many curious, brown faces staring back.  Most people were dressed in little more than rags and were frightfully thin.  Every one of them had a strange defiance in their eyes.

“I say,” Clement remarked, “the natives here, they don’t seem very welcoming, do they?”

“Don’t be too pitying,” scoffed Mr. Turpin.  “Most of these people, they sided with the rebels during the Uprising.”  He sneered in disgust.  ”They got what they deserved.”

*** *** ***


	3. Ratiramshree Palace

As a teenager, Cecilia had devoured many fantastic adventure novels, most starring her fictional hero, Lady Regina Heartstone.  In a typical escapade, the Lady Regina found herself whisked away to an exotic royal palace, perhaps in the faraway Orient, or Africa, or the Holy Land.  Cecilia had always been dazzled by the descriptions of those pleasure castles.

But now as she cast her eyes about the grand interior of Ratiramshree Palace, Cecilia felt more than a little awed.  Ratiramshree was lavish to an extreme.  The palace’s interior chambers were wide, with high, domed ceilings or crystal sunroofs.  The walls were exquisitely carved sandstone, betraying influences of the Gupta and Chandela eras from centuries past.  Cecilia was particularly impressed with the golden trim that threaded along the columns and yawning arches.  Traditional Indian tapestries and fine linens hung in ceremonial decoration.  The air smelled faintly of crushed rose petals.

“My… word!” Clement breathed, looking all about at once.

Stuck with wonder, Cecilia had to agree with her husband; Ratiramshree Palace was one of the beautiful buildings she’d ever seen.  It certainly did challenge the splendor of London’s Royal Opera House.

“Come, come,” Mr. Azad said impatiently.

The Indian manservant strode into the palace, moving into the main corridor.  As she followed, Cecilia peered into the adjacent chambers, each a jewel of refined presentation.  In one room, artisans were positioning a statue of an elephant.  In another, small Indian children in silk robes laughed and played, carefully watched by a half-dozen Indian governesses.  In a third room, a trio of wealthy Indian men lounged on an elevated platform, enjoying the two barely-clad belly dancers who swirled and swiveled before them.

“They certainly don’t believe in roughing it here at Ratiramshree, do they?” Clement mumbled, eyeing the dancers.

Cecilia frowned.

“Darling?” Clement said, for once noticing her expression.

His wife pointed to the two distant young women, still gyrating away.  “Dearest,” she said slowly, “those dancing girls…  Belly dancing is native to **_Arabia_** , not India.  Most odd.”

Clement chuckled, shaking his head.  “Oh, Cecilia,” he chided.  “You shouldn’t worry about such things.”

The young woman’s frown deepened.  But like a good wife, she did not argue with her husband.

“Azad,” Mr. Turpin’s voice rose up behind Cecilia.  Instantly, the Indian manservant halted, allowing his employer to draw him aside.  Clement and Cecilia stopped too, maintaining a respectful distance.

“Ye gods,” breathed Clement, his eyes still appreciatively sweeping over the grandness of the palace.  “Can you imagine living here?  How **_exciting!_**   The Maharaja must be a very happy man.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Cecilia.

Her husband shot her a playful yet quizzical look.  “ _’Perhaps?’_ ” he echoed.  “The palace isn’t up to your refined standards, m’lady?”

Cecilia blinked in surprise.  Was Clement… teasing her?

“I mean,” she said quickly, “the palace is really quite lovely.  I’ve just never assumed that such wealth led to happiness.”

“Oh, I see,” Clement said.  “Well, if they wanted me to be maharaja, I’d be willing to give it a go.”

Now Cecilia couldn’t resist the opportunity for a little ribbing.  “You just want to watch those dancing girls all day long, is that it?” she murmured.

Clement turned bright red.  “I… oh…  eh…” he stuttered.

The young woman smiled, amused at how easily Clement was flustered.

“Why Mr. Irvington,” she said coyly, taking his arm, “I do believe you are embarrassed.”

Clement, to his credit, broke out in to a dopey grin.

*** *** ***

As the Irvingtons teased one another, Mr. Turpin was giving hushed instructions to his manservant.  “Is the _Dvaitavana_ suite available?” he muttered.

Mr. Azad nodded.

“Very good,” nodded the Royal Envoy.  “Its on the other side of the palace; put the fool newspaperman in there.  But put the woman in the suite across the hallway from me.”  He grinned in satisfaction, eyeing Cecilia’s bottom.  ”I will visit her tonight.”

“You have pressing matters tonight, _sahib_ ,” reminded Mr. Azad.

Mr. Turpin scowled.  “The Maharaja’s salon, dash it all,” he fumed, fingering the elephant-head of his cane.  “Fine.  Tomorrow night, then.  Just keep her separated from her husband.  Until I’ve had her.”

*** *** ***

The Royal Envoy made his excuses, then vanished into the palace.  “Come,” Mr. Azad said airily to Cecilia and Clement.  “I will show you to your apartments.”

“Apartments?” Cecilia whispered to her husband in surprise.

The Indian servant led the couple up a wide flight of stairs, then down another series of corridors.  Eventually, he arrived at a grand-looking set of double doors.

“The young ma’am will stay here,” he said absently, pushing the doors open.

Cecilia opened her mouth to ask a question… but was dazzled at the room that lay before her.  Built from smooth, off-white stone, and with handpainted murals on the walls, the chamber was larger than all of her London townhouse.  There was a massive four poster bed against the far side, with wide seating areas and a miniature fountain opposite.  A dining area, entertaining sideroom, and dressing room were also visible.  The fireplace was so large, Cecilia could have walked directly in without having to stoop.

As the young couple gaped, two young, pretty Indian women emerged from the shadows.  Both of them perhaps fifteen years old, they wore the spotless white robes of palace servants.  Cecilia noted their feet were bare and small light blue flowers were woven into their finely braided hair.  The girls halted perhaps four feet away, then bowed once in submission.

“Your servants,” Mr. Azad said lazily, indicating the women.  “Diya and Pihu.”

“Ma’am,” the girls murmured quietly, bowing once again.

“My… **_word!_** ” Clement exclaimed delightfully.  “The Maharaja certainly knows how to show his guests a good time!  I shall most enjoy staying here!”

“I beg your pardon, _sahib_ ,” said Mr. Azad, “but these modest quarters are only for Mrs. Cecilia.  You must be housed over in the west wing, I am afraid.  There are no other suitable accommodations at present.”

“We… are not to be staying in the same room?” Cecilia asked, alarmed.  “But why not?”

“It is local custom, _sahiba_ ,” Mr. Azad explained, bowing quickly.  Diya and Pihu bowed too, matching him perfectly.  “In Jhansi, a wife is housed in her own chambers.  To honor her.”

“Oh, I say,” Cecilia protested, swiftly moving to take Clement’s arm.  “This man is my husband; I cannot possibly be without him.”

The servant girls exchanged scandalous looks.

Looking pained, Mr. Azad said, “Please forgive me, ma’am, but you would risk offending His Royal Highness, should you and your husband… occupy… the same sleeping space.  Traditions here in India are ancient and strict.”

“And of course,” the suave manservant added quickly, “Mr. Clement will be an honored guest in the palace.  Just a little further away.”

Cecilia wanted to close her eyes and scream.  While she couldn’t say why, the thought of being separated from her husband made her feel alone and vulnerable.  She cast her eyes up at Clement, willing him to detect her anxiety and refuse the separate accommodations.

To her dismay, Clement shrugged and said, “Well, if this is local custom, I suppose it’s all innocent enough.  We wouldn’t want to offend the Maharaja, would we?”

 _Damnation!_ thought Cecilia, exasperated.

“Darling,” the ballerina said firmly, “I don’t like this, I really don’t.  Why shouldn’t-“

“Come, come,” interrupted Mr. Azad.  “Perhaps if you see Mr. Clement’s suites, you will feel better, yes?  I will show you.”

Clement blinked.  “ ** _Suites?_** ” he said, stressing the plural.  “Well!  Isn’t this **_exciting…!_** ”

Mr. Azad beckoned, leading the young English couple back into the corridor.  Cecilia followed her husband, growing more irritated by the moment.

As she exited, four uniformed palace laborers appeared, carrying Cecilia’s luggage trunk between them.  The Englishwoman paused long enough to see the trunk set within her suite’s dressing area.  Then the servants Diya and Pihu went to work unpacking, carefully inspecting Cecilia’s traveling wardrobe with curious hands.

*** *** ***

Far across the palace, Clement’s chambers were even larger and grander than Cecilia’s.  These rooms had all the luxuries Cecilia had, plus a yawning balcony which overlooked the city.  Four male servants stood ready for Clement’s commands.

“Well!” the journalist beamed, lost for words.  “…isn’t this…”

“Exciting, yes,” Cecilia sourly agreed.

The Ratiramshree Palace was grander than words could say, and yet Cecilia felt uneasy.  Not even the _prima ballerina assoluta_ of Europe were awarded such luxurious hospitality.  The young Englishwoman wondered what price would be extracted.

*** *** ***

After settling Clement into his rooms, Mr. Azad gave the English couple a tour of the castle.  “His Majesty the Maharaja is most interested in adapting the palace for many more English guests,” the Indian manservant explained as he led Clement and Cecilia through the Grand Hall, just outside the Royal Entrance.

“How **_exciting!_** ” Clement remarked, craning his neck upwards at the rising domed ceiling, high, high above them.

“You anticipate many more English visitors, then?” Cecilia asked.

Mr. Azad nodded.  “Quite so.  Now that the English will be ruling our country, His Majesty is determined to make Ratiramshree Palace suitable to impress English visitors.  He has begun constructing a billiards room, a parlour, a tea-time café, and a library.  Our English guests must appreciate luxury.”

 _The Maharaja wants to impress his conquerors,_ Cecilia thought sarcastically, _because he wishes to manipulate them._

“I would show all these attractions to you, but supper will be served very shortly,” Mr. Azad remarked.  ”We should head to the banquet hall.  Come.”

The three moved down another corridor, one which bustled with activity.  Servants and palace guests moved about, careful to avoid one another.

Cecilia and Clement passed two servant men, who were deep in conversation while arranging shipping crates.  The younger man, oddly enough, had a red eyepatch, which only served to call attention to his more-handsome features.

“ _Saamaany Laksurimanan,_ ” Eyepatch murmured, “ _pahale se hee use dekh raha hai-_ ”

His elder realized Cecilia was watching them  “ _Chup rahana!_ ” the man hissed.

Both servants fell silent, concentrating on their task.

Cecilia glided past, pretending she had not understood a word.  But her ears had distinctly heard the name “Laksurimanan.”  **_The fabled rebel general!_**   Could General Laksurimanan be at Ratiramshree Palace?!?

Cecilia’s heart quickened, and she dared a sideways glance about her.  Suddenly she felt as if she was stepping into one of Lady Regina’s adventure stories.

*** *** ***

Supper was an elaborate affair.  The Maharaja’s banquet hall was a cavernous room, lined with Indian columns.  Two enormous stone tigers, positioned above the entrance ways, snarled at one another from across the room.  One could see scenes from Jhansi history painstakingly carved into every stone pillar.  An especially high domed ceiling smiled down on two long tables.

The tables themselves were works of delicate art.  Cecilia had never seen so much fine china or gleaming silverware, all elaborately laid out in perfect formations.  Kitchen servants fussed over the table settings and floral arrangements.

All about, palace guests were trickling in.  “ _Sahib_ and _sahiba_ will sit here,” Mr. Azad said tonelessly, gesturing to the far more resplendent table.  “It is for English only.”

“I say,” remarked Clement.  “The English are given the finest seats?”

“At Ratiramshree,” Mr. Azad replied dryly, “the English are given the finest of everything.”  And without another word, the manservant vanished into the crowd.

At that moment, the low chatter among the palace guests suddenly ceased.  Two large red doors were opening in the farther entranceway.

“Oh bother,” an older Englishman grumbled.  “His Majesty graces us with his presence, eh?”

Cecilia craned her neck.  Entering through the doors was a tall young Indian man, dressed in an expensive Western suit, but with traditional Indian shoes and a silken _Nehru_ jacket.  A sparkling jeweled _Pheta_ turban adorned his head.  The young man was well-fed, with a calm stare and an almost bored manner about him.  His dark brown eyes swept over all of his guests, yet betrayed no interest whatsoever.

This man, Cecilia had no doubt, was the Maharaja of Jhansi.

A small army of servants flanked His Majesty on both sides.  And only a few steps behind, was Mr. Turpin, strolling along with his elephant-head cane rapping against the polished stone floor.  The Royal Envoy held his head high.

“Eh, see?” the Englishman sneered to a companion.  “The Maharaja thinks he is in charge… but Turpin keeps him on a short leash.”

“I’ve heard,” the other fellow muttered, “that this Maharaja fellow actually wishes to be accepted among the Crowned Heads of Europe.”

“Ha!” a third Englishman gloated.  “An Indian seen as a peer to Queen Victoria?  Never!”

The Maharaja gestured, the barest of motions.  Instantly, the servants swarmed up to a raised platform, producing a third, smaller table and a throne.  In a twinkling, the Maharaja had his own place for supper, and the ruler moved to sit there.

Only once His Majesty assumed his table did all the other guests sit.

“Goodness,” Clement murmured, “this really is a royal court, isn’t it?”

“Only because Turpin permits it,” countered the Englishman next to Cecilia.  “They should toss that Maharaja into the streets and install a colonial governor, if you ask me.”

“The people would revolt again,” said another English fellow, this one wearing the pin of the British Foreign Office.  “Jhansi looks tame, but the foolish locals would storm the palace if provoked.  Better to leave the boy king on the throne as a figurehead.”

*** *** ***

After supper, the kitchen servants quickly cleared the last of the banquet platters.  The oil lamps were dimmed.  The Maharaja had long since departed, and the remaining guests were trudging to their rooms.  The palace was preparing for nighttime.

Clement and Cecilia strode up the master staircase arm-in-arm, Clement puffing from overeating.  For the first time since boarding the train from Bombay, the two were alone.

Cecilia pursed her lips, wondering if she could tell her husband about her suspicions.

“Darling,” she said lightly, “that General Laksurimanan of yours…  what if he was secretly here, in the palace?”

The young reporter grunted as he rose a step.  His wife held her breath, worried what he might say.

As her husband, Clement was well within his rights to swat aside Cecilia’s curiosity.  And possibly even reprimand her.  Victorian wives were not to show such interest in such things like fugitive generals lurking about.

But to Cecilia’s relief, Clement said, “Whatever do you mean, dearest?”  There was genuine interest in his voice.

“The servants here whispered his name,” muttered Cecilia, glancing about to ensure they weren’t being overheard.  “And I thought I saw one or two Indian gentlemen at dinner who must have had a military background.  Oh, darling,” she enthused, her imagination getting the better of her, ”what if the general’s **_here_**?  Waiting to lead another revolution?”

Clement frowned, although he might have been suppressing a spicy burp.

“…what do you think?” Cecilia prodded.

“Darling,” her husband shook his head, “none of what you observed is proof of any kind.  And there’s no reason to think the general is alive.”

“Ah,” Cecilia allowed.  Inside, her heart sank.

Clement eyed her, a playful smile on his face.  “You thought we were on the verge of an adventure, didn’t you?” he said.

“Oh,” replied Cecilia, blushing a little.  “Oh, no, darling.  Of course not.  Don’t be silly.”

“You were, weren’t you?” Clement said, and his smile widened.

Cecilia realized: he was teasing her again!

“Don’t mock me,” she said tartly.

“Sorry, darling,” Clement said quickly.  But his smile remained.

The couple reached the top of the staircase, then turned down the corridor towards Cecilia’s room.

“You know,” remarked Clement, sounding a little too casual, “if the general was here…  Well, readers of the Times would be most gratified to know.”

Cecilia stared at him.

“Why don’t you… poke about a little?” suggested Clement.  “Play detective.  See what you can deduce.”

“Do you really mean it?” Cecilia said, surprised.

“Oh, absolutely,” replied her husband.

The young Englishwoman opened and then closed her mouth, astounded.

“I’d do it myself,” Clement said easily, “but everyone here knows that I’m a reporter.  No-one here is going to share sensitive information with me, nor allow me to find a hidden guest in the palace.”  He grinned.  “But they’ll never suspect you.”

“Besides,” he added, “you’re so clever.  If the general is here, you’ll sniff him out much faster than I could.”

The young Englishwoman turned to regard her husband, as if she was seeing him for the first time.  Clement wore his lopsided smile.

“Do you really think so?” the young woman asked, pleased.  Another thought occurred to her.  “Snooping for the general… it could be dangerous.”

“Hmm,” Clement mused, considering this.  “Well… possibly.  But there are so many Englishmen here.  Laksurimanan wouldn’t dare move against you.  That is, if he’s here at all.”

“My goodness…!” exclaimed Cecilia, suddenly impatient to explore the palace.

Clements eyes twinkled as he looked upon his beautiful wife.  “Well,” he chuckled.  “It seems you are on an adventure after all.  I almost admire you, you know.”

“It will probably turn out to be a false lead,” reminded Cecilia.  “All reports indicated that the general is long-dead.”

“True…” Clement said, considering, “but if he is alive and you discover him… just be sure to let me know.  Or you’ll be hired by the Times and goodness knows what I’ll do for a living.”

“Oh stop,” said Cecilia, playfully slapping Clement’s chest.  An irrepressible smile escaped her lips.

The young couple had reached Cecilia’s doors.

“Well,” Clement said, his disappointment obvious, “I suppose this is where we part for the evening.”  He seemed depressed to leave Cecilia’s side.

The young woman gazed up at her husband, for once touched at his obvious fondness for her.  “Oh, darling,” she soothed, “its just for a little while.  I’ll see you at breakfast, won’t I?”

“Indeed,” Clement nodded.

The two paused, still reluctant to part.

Feeling impulsive, Cecilia stood on her toes, craning her neck to kiss Clement on the cheek.  “Until the morning, darling,” she whispered.

*** *** ***


	4. A Proper English Library

The servant girls had been busy.  Cecilia entered her suite to discover a great fire roaring in the hearth, her bed turned down, and light pink flowers arranged in vases about the room.  Diya was busy drawing an evening bath in the bathing-chamber.

“Goodness,” Cecilia exclaimed, caught off-guard.

Instantly Diya and Pihu rose and bowed.  “Everything is ready, _sahiba_ ,” Diya murmured.  “May we bathe now, or would you like an evening hookah or beverage?”

The young Englishwoman blinked.  Back in London, she was used to having a maid, but the service at Ratiramshree Palace seemed ridiculously lavish.

“I think I can prepare myself for bed, **_thank you_** ,” she replied.

Ignoring the glance that Diya and Pihu exchanged, Cecilia moved into the dressing area, expecting to find her trunk waiting for her.  Instead, the softly-lit room was arranged with racks of Indian clothes, robes of soft textures and all colors.

“Where…” the Englishwoman exclaimed, “…where are my things?”

Diya and Pihu bowed quickly.  “We sent _sahiba_ ’s clothes to the palace cleaners,” Diya replied cautiously.  “Until they are ready, the palace butler had these clothes made for you.”  The young girl paused.  “They are not to your liking?”

Feeling turned upside-down, Cecilia plucked one of the robes from the rack.  It was a dark red _sari_ , with light gold thread carefully woven into the rich fabric.  The beautiful cloth was light and soft in her fingers.

Despite her annoyance, Cecilia had to admit… these garments were absolutely beautiful.

“Well…” the former ballerina admitted, “they are.  Yes, these are quite nice.”  Still, she would have liked to have been informed that her own garments were spirited away.

Diya and Pihu stood rooted on the spot, uncertain what to do next.  “You are displeased with us, _sahiba_?” said Diya fearfully.  “In India, it is custom that the servant does everything; disrobing, bathing, dressing, everything.”

“No, no,” Cecilia sighed.  “Let’s… let’s get me ready for bed, then.”

The two servant girls gingerly approached, then began stripping Cecilia naked.

*** *** ***

In the morning, Cecilia woke to discover that Diya and Pihu had slept on the floor, below her bed.  The Indian notion of service was strict, indeed.  The servant was to have no desire except the pleasure of the master.

After another bath – this one where Cecilia merely stood naked and motionless while the two teenage women gently scrubbed her body with warm water and spiced soap – the young Englishwoman was swathed in a cream-colored _anarkali_ , complete with a decorative sash, matching cloth shoes, and small, white flowers in her hair.

*** *** ***

Cecilia almost didn’t recognize her husband.  Already seated at the banquet table when she arrived, Clement was dressed in a traditional _achkan_ that bristled with buttons, _churidar_ trousers, and custom boots.  The young reporter was chafing a little at the high color.

“Darling!” Cecilia exclaimed, sitting next to him.  “Goodness, they removed your clothes for cleaning, too?”

Clement’s eyes popped when he saw his wife.  “My… word!” he gaped.  “You look… beautiful.  Like an princess from a fairy-story, darling.”

Cecilia was so pleased, she turned bright red.  She couldn’t help it.

*** *** ***

The young couple ate quickly, for Clement was hoping to travel into the city and observe the British soldiers at Jhansi Fort.  “From there, I’ll start talking with the officers,” he confided.  “See what they know.”  He offered Cecilia an _aloo paratha_ , still warm from the palace bakery.  “And you, darling?”

“I’m off to find General Laksurimanan,” reminded Cecilia, using her playful voice.

“Oh, of course,” Clement grinned.  “And how are you to find this shadowy figure?”

Cecilia was about to reply when her eye spotted a lone figure outside the banquet hall.  The young servant with the red eyepatch was passing by in the outer corridor, carrying a wooden shipping box.

“I’ll think of something,” Cecilia said mysteriously, and hurriedly excused herself.

*** *** ***

On the other end of the banquet hall, Geoff Turpin was brooding.  He was the **_true_** master of Ratiramshree Palace!  Why did he have to eat with the common English?  He should have an elevated table of his own, just like the Maharaja.

Perhaps the problem, the Envoy mused, was that he was not rich enough.  In Victorian society, it was of course prestigious when Queen Victoria selected you for a foreign assignment.  But service to the Crown did not pay well.  Turpin had observed that the other, wealthier Envoys were regarded with near godlike status at their stations.  Perhaps he simply needed more coin.

Well, Jhansi was a city ripe for exploitation.  As the de facto ruler, Turpin could pick and choose business contracts.  And… if no-one was looking… he could solicit bribes, seize Indian assets, even lay claim to resources as his own.  It was tempting.

A flash of activity down the table interrupted Turpin’s thoughts.  The young Mrs. Cecilia Irvington, now swathed in a becoming Indian dress, rose up, kissed her fool husband on the cheek, then hurried from the banquet hall.  Men up and down the table paused to admire her bouncing figure.  She was a lovely creature, indeed.

Corrupt thoughts of stealing from Jhansi evaporated from Turpin’s mind.  He let out a slow, trembling breath.  How long he’d lusted for a proper English girl like Cecilia!

Oh, there were plenty of Indian women he could have bedded.  But the racist bureaucrat wanted nothing but his own ilk.  The thought of Cecilia, naked and squealing beneath him, drove him wild.

 _Tonight_ , Turpin promised himself.  Tonight, he would steal into Cecilia’s chambers, frighten off her dull-witted servants, and then have Cecilia all for himself.  He’d use that fragrance candle he’d purchased from the _Dayan_ witch, the one supposedly with irresistible aphrodisiac powers.

And if Cecilia still didn’t willingly spread her legs for him?  Well, he’d been as restrained as he could.  He’d simply force himself upon her.

*** *** ***

In the grand corridor, Cecilia spotted the red eyepatch servant almost right away.  He was climbing the grand staircase, carrying two wooden shipping boxes in his arms.  The young man didn’t notice her.

 _Hmm,_ thought Cecilia.

Trying to look as causal as possible, the curious Englishwoman followed the servant, taking care to remain several steps behind him at all times.  The young man moved down the upper corridor, eventually disappearing into a carved archway to the right.

Biting her lip, Cecilia followed.

Through the archway, there was a large room, illuminated by a great domed window in the ceiling.  The room was dominated by large, oaken bookshelves, each stuffed to the brim with colorful books.  The young eye-patched servant was opening boxes and unpacking more books, which he shelved immediately.

There was an awkward pause as the servant and Englishwoman stared at one another.

“May I be of service, _sahiba_?” the servant asked dryly.

In a flash, Cecilia realized:  **_This was the palace library!_**

“I’m… looking for a book,” she said, hoping she sounded innocent.

The servant bowed slightly.  “Please,” he said, gesturing to the bookcases.  Then he resumed unpacking.  But Cecilia felt his suspicious gaze upon her.

Determined to keep up her ruse, the young Englishwoman moved to the nearest shelf and began scanning titles.

And she smiled almost immediately.  The palace servants clearly had no idea how a proper English library was organized.  Books were neatly arranged on the shelf by size and color, not topic.  This meant John Stewart Mill’s A System of Logic rested directly next to Winchell Topper’s Recipes for the Frugal English Housewife, and then Sexton Stone’s Principles of Basic Seamanship, and then Frances Hodgson Burnett’s Little Lord Fauntleroy.  The arrangement was pleasing to the eye, but made no organizational sense whatsoever.

Despite herself, the librarian’s daughter laughed out loud.

“Is something the matter, _sahiba_?” Eyepatch asked nervously, appearing at her elbow.

In a flash, Cecilia hatched a plan.  If this young man was a connection to the mysterious General Laksurimanan, then she needed to watch him closely.  Even secure his trust, if possible.  Working on a project together might be just the opportunity she needed.

With a motherly shake of her head, Cecilia began pulling books from the shelf.  “Oh no,” she clucked.  “This will never, never do.  Not at all!”

To Cecilia’s amusement, the first book she snatched was The Secret Slave-Girl, another adventure-story starring Lady Regina Heartstone.  A good omen.  She grabbed the next five books, thrusting them all at the eyepatched young man.

“ _Sahiba!_ ” the servant cried, aghast.

“Come, come now,” Cecilia chided.  “Do you know how to organize an English library, sir?”

“I…  uh…”

“I thought not,” smiled the young Englishwoman.  “Come, there’s nothing to it, really.  I’ll help you.”  She began pulling books.

“We’ll have this sorted in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” she said gaily, ignoring the servant’s horrified expression.  “You’ll see.  What is your name, sir?”

“Er…  Adi, _sahiba_.”

“Very well, Adi,” Cecilia said, flashing the boy her brightest smile.  “Let’s start to make piles.”

*** *** ***

It took nearly two hours to unshelve the entire library, then another four to sort the books into general topics.  Adi proved to be a quick study, and Cecilia found herself invested in the project.  By teatime, the two had properly bunched the Geography, History, and Astronomy books into neat piles on the floor.  Novels and Poetry were next.

As they worked, Cecilia was aware that the young Indian manservant was watching her closely.  She permitted the surveillance.  Her plan, as flimsy as it was, was to simply spend time with Adi, engage him in light conversation, and if possible, learn about his background.

How, for example, did he lose that eye?  Did he fight at the side of General Laksurimanan?  Was he in the service of the general even now?  Cecilia’s heart burned with questions… but she forced her tongue to be still.  If she were to learn Adi’s secrets, she had to win his trust first.

*** *** ***

After pausing for midday snack, Cecilia and Adi began to grapple with the scope of the task before them.  All about the library, large piles of books loomed, while the bookshelves themselves were largely bare.  Too late, Cecilia realized that it might take a week to restore everything to working order.

Just when the scale of the labor before her was becoming evident, Mr. Azad appeared in the archway.  Immediately, the manservant turned bright red, aghast at the disorder.

Mr. Azad rounded on Adi.  “ _Tum kya kar rahe ho?!?_ ” he roared.  “ _Kya aap sharm karana chaahate hain-_ “

Cecilia stepped out from behind a bookcase, rushing to Adi’s side.  “Please, Mr. Azad,” she said hurriedly.  “This is my fault.  I insisted.  Adi here is only accommodating my very English impulses.  You can forgive him… can’t you?”

Caught off-guard, Mr. Azad looked from the cringing Adi and Cecilia and then back again.

“Miss Cecilia,” he said awkwardly.  “I… er, I apologize most humbly.  Perhaps…  ah…”

“We’ll have the library in shipshape in no time,” promised Cecilia… although this was an obvious lie.  She and Adi had reshelved perhaps a tenth of the entire collection.

Mr. Azad swallowed, the wheels in his head turning.  “Of course, _sahiba_ ,” he murmured.  The manservant glanced about.  “But perhaps… you could use some extra help?”

“That would be lovely,” Cecilia admitted.

Now the picture of calm, Mr. Azad said, “I will see to it.”  And without another word, he turned and swept from the disheveled library.

Cecilia let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding.  “Whew!” she exclaimed, grinning in embarrassment.  “I thought we were in trouble there, for a moment.”

But Adi looked at her with adoration.  “You have spared me from a whipping today,” he said gratefully.

*** *** ***

A half an hour later, six scrawny boy-servants appeared, blinking in wonder at the mountains of books under the sky-dome.  The oldest spoke to Adi in Urdu.

“He says that the Mr. Azad has sent them to help,” translated Adi.

“Ah!” Cecilia crowed.  “Excellent.”  In a twinkling, she set each boy to a task, using Adi to translate her wishes.

Within an hour, the library was looking somewhat organized once again.

*** *** ***

When the supper gong sounded, Cecilia was feeling accomplished.  The library was almost finished.

“It looks very good,” she surveyed, nodding in approval.

Adi bowed.  “All thanks to you, _sahiba_ ,” he groveled.

The Englishwoman frowned.  “Tut tut, Adi,” she groused.  “I’ve never liked the master/servant roles they expect us to play here.  Honestly, I was just glad to help.”

The eyepatched servant smiled, although the smile did not reach his eyes.

“That’s enough for today,” Cecilia said, rubbing the book dust from her hands.  “Tomorrow, we’ll finish shelving, then work on labels.  **_Then_** you’ll be in tip-top condition.”

The young Englishwoman paused.  All day long, she’d worked alongside the tireless Adi, hoping he might offer some small clue as to his own past or the whereabouts of General Laksurimanan.  But the servant had revealed nothing.  Now that she was about to depart, he seemed even more reserved than ever.

“Very well, then,” Cecilia mused, hiding her disappointment.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Until tomorrow, _sahiba_ ,” Adi replied, and bowed.

*** *** ***

Cecilia found Clement at the banquet table.  The other English guests were present, but the Maharaja was not.  Clement was already wolfing down his supper.

“Fine manners you have, Mr. Irvington,” Cecilia frowned, sitting beside him.  “Not content to wait for your wife, I see?”

“Oh!” Clement jumped, surprised to see her.  “Oh, I’b suh sorry, durlin’,” he grunted, his mouth full of curry and naan.

“So I see,” Cecilia said disapprovingly.

Clement swallowed, then hastily dabbed his mouth with a napkin.  “No, no, darling,” he pleaded.  “I really am truly sorry.  You see, the Foreign Office has organized an elephant hunt tonight.  I must go along, you see.  Its an ideal opportunity to mingle with them, as it were.”

“I see,” said Cecilia, still glowering.  “So why-“

“They leave in ten minutes,” Clement said, snatching some more naan.  “I haven’t a moment, I’m sorry.”

“They… hunt elephants at night?” Cecilia exclaimed.  She felt surprisingly abandoned.

“Apparently the beasts are easiest to shoot when they are sleeping,” Clement dryly replied, stuffing the bread into his pockets.  He rose from his chair, already throwing down his napkin.

“Very well,” Cecilia moped.

Her husband, for once, paused to look at her closely.  “Hey,” he said gently, and took her hand.

Surprised, Cecilia looked up.

“I know this trip is hard for you,” Clement told her, his voice warm and soft.  “I’m sorry for that.  Soon, darling, we’ll have all the time in the world together.  Can you be patient for me until then?”

Clement, never a handsome man, looked positively adorable in the dim palace light.  Cecilia found herself smiling up at him.  His concern was touching.

“Oh course, darling,” she whispered.

*** *** ***

After an evening tea with the other ladies of the palace, Cecilia gave up hope that Clement would appear.  Feeling tired, she decided to head off to bed.

It was odd, the Englishwoman reflected as she climbed the Grand Staircase.  She and Clement had been wed only a month ago, having known one another barely a few days.  Clement had struck her as distracted, childish, a fool in every possible way.  And when her new groom had cheerfully announced that she was to be whisked away to India, Cecilia had wanted to curl up and die.  Her left seemed cursed.

And yet…  Now that they were on this strange adventure in Ratiramshree Palace, it was as if Cecilia and Clement were seeing one another in a new light.  Clement actually listened to her, for one.  Victorian husbands were not famous for lending an attentive ear, certainly not to their wives.  And more than that, there was now this tenderness in Clement’s eyes when he looked at her.

With a start, Cecilia realized:  **_Clement is falling in love with me!_**

Surprised, the young Englishwoman smiled to herself.  A husband who loved her?  It was a nice feeling.

Rapid footfalls behind her jolted Cecilia back into the present.  She turned, and was stunned to see Adi hurrying up the stairs towards her.

“ _Sahiba,_ ” he said, his voice low and worried, “You are in danger!”

*** *** ***

The eyepatched servant led Cecilia up the corridor, away from her room.  The young man was clearly anxious, throwing fraught glances about as he gestured for Cecilia to keep up.

Finally, Adi found a small alcove of white stone.  He ushered the alarmed Cecilia inside, then cast one last look about to ensure they were alone.  The young Englishwoman studied his face anxiously.

“Do you remember the man who came to the library earlier today?” Adi said rapidly.  “That Mr. Azad?  You remember?”

Cecilia nodded.

“He is a wicked man,” Adi said fearfully.  “Very cruel, very greedy.  And his English master…”  The young servant shuddered.  “That man may be a _rakshasa_ come to make us all suffer.”

“You mean Mr. Turpin?” said Cecilia in a low voice.

Adi nodded, his one eye wide.  “The servants of the palace, _sahiba_ , there is little that happens here that we do not know.  We overheard the Mr. Turpin speaking with Mr. Azad, instructing him to guard your room tonight.”

The Englishwoman’s brow wrinkled.  “Guard my door…?” she echoed.  “But why-“

“Because the Mr. Turpin plans to enter your room and then **_force himself_** upon you,” said Adi sharply.

Cecilia clamped a hand over her own mouth before her squeal of shock could escape.  Horror almost overcame her.

“Yes,” nodded Adi, his concern evident.  “Apparently the Mr. Turpin believes he has some mystic power which will… ah, inflame your sensibilities and make you more willing to his… er…”

“I understand,” Cecilia said quickly, still in shock.  “Are you **_sure?_**   Is there-“

“I have said too much already,” Adi begged off, clearly ready to flee up the corridor.

“Wait!” the Englishwoman cried, clutching his hand.

Adi paused, clearly wishing to be away.

“I…” Cecilia said helplessly, her mind reeling.  “I thought… you were going to tell me about General Laksurimanan,” she said stupidly.

A pained expression crossed Adi’s face.  “The general was killed by the English soldiers,” he said sadly.  “Oh, how I wish he had succeeded.  India might be free today.”

The young man was about to add something when a door nearby opened.  With a panicked expression, Adi snatched his hand back, then tore up the corridor.

*** *** ***


	5. An Unexpected Servant

Her heart pounding, Cecilia rushed straight to her room.  The few English guests whom she passed stared at her curiously, but she didn’t dare stop to ask them for help.  Mr. Turpin was well-liked and powerful.  She would be dismissed as a foolish young girl with flights of fancy.

The thought of the Royal Envoy dropping his trousers and then climbing into her bed dominated Cecilia’s mind, smothering all other thoughts.  Realizing how vulnerable she was, Cecilia felt ill.  For lands’ sake, Mr. Turpin’s suite was just across the hallway from her own!  No doubt he’d planned this rape from the moment he’d laid his beady eyes upon her.

*** *** ***

Panicking, the young Englishwoman flew into her room.  Diya and Pihu were opening up the bed and looked up in alarm.  Cecilia slammed the twin doors shut behind her, then reached for the lock.

But the doors had no lock.  Nor was there any way to bar them shut, either.

“Dam ** _nation!_** ” Cecilia cursed, fighting tears.

“ _Sahiba?_ ” a rich feminine voice from behind her said.

Cecilia whirled about, tense and surprised.

Stepped out from the dressing area, there was a third Indian servant woman, tall and almost regal.  This newcomer was slender, with long, raven-like black hair, high cheekbones, and large, soft brown eyes.  Her beauty was plain, yet elegant.  In her servant’s dress, her bare arms appeared smooth yet muscled, with delicate wrists and long, graceful fingers.  The woman folded her hands before her in the submissive pose as she approached.

Cecilia scowled.  “Who are you?” she demanded, feeling more than a little betrayed.

The new servant continued her slow approach.  “I am Tanvi, _sahiba_ ,” she said, her voice soft and reverent.  “The master of the palace noticed that you were assigned only two servant women, while your husband was given four attendants during his stay here.”  She bowed her head, once.  “The master regrets that he can only spare me to redress this oversight.”

Angered, Cecilia almost snarled, “I don’t need another servant.  I need…”

She paused, feeling overwhelmed.  In perhaps an hour or so, Mr. Azad would call away the servants, leaving her defenseless against Mr. Turpin.  She felt trapped.

Tanvi’s expression softened.  “What is wrong, ma’am?”

Cecilia wanted to explode, to bellow and scream at this new woman, at **_anyone_** associated with the horrid Ratiramshree Palace.  **_Was there no justice?_**

And yet…  Tanvi’s face betrayed a genuine concern.  It was nice to see affection from another human being.

Dropping her rage, Cecilia sunk to her knees, her tears openly flowing now.  “There is a man,” she wept.  “An Englishman.  He will be coming here soon to… to force himself upon me.  I need-“

Tanvi gasped, an audible expression of horror.  “ _Devata nan!_ ” she exclaimed in shock.

In a flash, the beautiful servant was kneeling before Cecilia, taking the Englishwoman’s shaking hands.  “Tell me everything,” the Indian commanded firmly.

Cecilia didn’t hold back.  She related all that had happened to her; the chance meeting with Mr. Turpin on the train, the invitation to stay at Ratiramshree Palace, her brief hunt for General Laksurimanan… and now, her impending rape.  As the words spilled forth, Cecilia began to shake with tears of exhaustion.

Tanvi was horror-stricken.  “ _Sala!_ ” she swore softly, passing a hand over her mouth.

Then, before Cecilia could react, the new servant woman rose, moving to the decorative bell-ropes that hung off the fireplace.  Her slender fingers selected one entwined with purple ribbons, and then pulled.  A soft bell, set somewhere deep within the palace, rang once.

“ _Sahiba,_ ” said Tanvi, returning to Cecilia’s side and taking her by the shoulders, “you will be safe.  This I promise you.  Here, come with me and compose yourself.  You must not allow others in the palace to see you in such a state.”

Gently but firmly, Tanvi guided Cecilia into a padded couch, a scented handkerchief somehow appearing in her thin hands.  The servant woman expertly dabbed at Cecilia’s tears.

As the beautiful Indian woman worked, Cecilia noticed that she wore a small, purple crystal pendant, suspended from a thin gold chain around her slender neck.  The crystal gleamed dully in the hearth’s firelight.

There was a soft knock at the outer doors.  Cecilia, despite herself, tensed.

But Tanvi never flinched.  She immediately swept to the suite entrance.

At the double doors, four Indian warriors stood, each clad in black leather and black turbans.  Each man had a long, wicked-looking sword strapped to his belt.  Amazingly, the men bowed to Tanvi as she cast her sharp eyes over them.

The servant woman spoke rapidly in Hindi, gesturing to the corridor space immediately outside Cecilia’s rooms.  The soldiers listened intently, then nodded once, a nod that Tanvi returned.  Her authority was not questioned, and they assumed a defensive position as she pushed the door shut.

Cecilia’s mouth dropped open, and Tanvi could not help but smile as she approached.

“Those men,” the servant women explained calmly, “they are _Nirmanaska Baskala_ ; the Maharaja’s sworn protectors.  If anything were to happen to you while you were a guest of His Majesty, dishonor among the gods would fall on this house.”  She snapped up the handkerchief and resumed drying Cecilia’s tears.  “Those men, they will remain at your door all night.  No Englishman, no matter how arrogant or foolish, will dare challenge them.”

A flood of relief swept over Cecilia.  “All night?” she stupidly echoed.

“Yes, _sahiba_ ,” Tanvi gently smiled.  “All night.  Come, I must dress you for bed.”

*** *** ***

A few harsh words from Tanvi sent poor Diya and Pihu flying from the suite.  “We do not need them, _sahiba_ ,” Tanvi assured Cecilia.  “They are but silly girls, empty in the head.  But do not worry; they will dare not gossip.”

The Englishwoman nodded, surprised at the gratitude she felt in this moment.  Tanvi was firm and commanding, yet somehow motherly at the same time.  Cecilia felt oddly safe in her protective care.

“You must know the palace well?” she said, curious.

Tanvi loosened the sash about Cecilia’s waist.  “I am new here,” the servant confessed.  “There is much to learn.  But who has power and who doesn’t… that is obvious to anyone with eyes.”

As Cecilia’s clothes fell away, a new, horrid thought popped into the Englishwoman’s head.  “Those guards will watch the door tonight,” she said nervously.  “But Mr. Turpin is a patient man.  Surely the soldiers can’t guard me all the time while I’m a guest at the palace.”

Tanvi considered these words as she went to work on Cecilia’s undergarments.  “That is quite so, _sahiba,_ ” she admitted.  “We will have to think up a new defense for you.”

“I will tell my husband,” Cecilia mused aloud.  “Perhaps he could-“

“Mr. Turpin would have your husband executed by a paid thug,” Tanvi said darkly.  “The servants in this palace have been watching him closely.  He is an evil man.  Don’t underestimate his ruthlessness.”

The young Englishwoman swallowed.  “There must be something to keep him at bay…”

Tanvi gently untied the drawstring of Cecilia’s pantaloons, the last of the Englishwoman’s clothes.  The servant seemed to be carefully weighing many thoughts.

“I will help you,” Tanvi eventually declared.  She seemed bold, even confident.  “But first, we must finish your evening preparations, yes?”

The pantaloons dropped to the floor, leaving Cecilia completely naked.  Tanvi picked up the bathing-cloth from the nearby wash basin.  With a skilled but gentle hand, she began swathing Cecilia’s lean body.

“You must love your husband very much,” she commented.

“Well…” Cecilia said, taken aback by the question, “…ours was an arranged marriage.”

Instantly, Clement’s face appeared in Cecilia’s mind.  She smiled absently.

But the servant woman had not noticed.  “Arranged marriages are the tradition here too,” sighed Tanvi.  “Women rarely can choose their happiness in life, can they?  In a better world, that would be changed.”

“Perhaps,” agreed the Englishwoman.

Tanvi knelt on her haunches, washing Cecilia’s bare legs.  “Ma’am is very fit, may I say,” she said, her voice almost admiring.

“Oh,” replied Cecilia, caught off-guard.  “I was a ballerina, not long ago.”

Tanvi frowned.  “Ballerina?”

A quick explanation was in order.  As best she could, Cecilia described the London Ballet.

“You were a dancer, I understand,” Tanvi said, almost sadly.  “You had to surrender a life you loved for the life you have now.”

Cecilia nodded, then sighed.  “Let us talk of more pleasant things.”

The servant rose to her feet, directly before the Englishwoman.  “As you wish, _sahiba_.”  She tossed the bathing-cloth into the basin.  “Have you heard of _Videha_ , perchance?” she asked pleasantly.  Her fingers moved to her neck, where she began removing her necklace.

“Videha?” Cecilia said blankly.  “No.  No, I’m afraid not.  Why?”

“It is an ancient place, far to the north,” Tanvi said smoothly, lifting the necklace free from her long hair.  “Extremely ancient.  Many think the gods may have started the world there.  Your Christian Bible would consider it the Garden of Eden.  It is a remote land, lush and green.  Myself, I have been there only once.”

“I see,” said Cecilia.  Although she didn’t.

“There is a… how do you English say… a special energy there,” remarked Tanvi.  “Scholars think the Kama Sutra was composed there.”  She smiled, blushing slightly.  “I believe they were inspired by the ancient magic I felt in those lands.  Most passionate.  Most bewitching.”

The servant held up her necklace, and the purple crystal dangling from the chain began to sparkle before Cecilia’s eyes.  “I found this in that distant land, _sahiba_ ,” Tanvi remarked.  “An ancient stone, perhaps as old as the Earth itself.  It is very delicate, but contains wonderous magic.”

“Magic?” said Cecilia, openly doubtful.

“Yes, _sahiba,_ ” sighed Tanvi, still holding up the crystal.  “Powerful magic.”

Like all her English peers, Cecilia was a good Anglican, raised to be suspicious of anything that fell outside of church orthodoxy.  A mystic rock definitely violated those parameters.

Tanvi observed, “It is a curious stone, no?”  She was watching Cecilia closely.  “If I were to drop it, it would shatter like glass.  Yet it contains a strength beyond what the heavens themselves possess.”

Cecilia frowned.  “It does look rather like dull glass,” the Englishwoman replied, wondering if Tanvi had been swindled by a cheap street merchant.

“You could see through glass,” countered the servant woman.

She was right; the pendant was largely opaque.  It seemed that the light from the oil-lamps struck the stone and then was sucked inside.  The pendant’s dull purple color seemed almost ugly in the soft firelight.

And yet… there were faintest sparkles deep within the little crystal.  One-by-one, they flared up, then slowly faded.  _Like lightening bugs in a hot July evening,_ Cecilia thought.

As she watched, two sparkles lit at the same time.  They drifted towards one another, then merged and faded as a single point of light.

“The stone is a strange one,” said Tanvi.  “Sometimes, I think I hear it speak, in the faintest of whispers.  Perhaps an old god is trapped within?  That is a strange thought.”

The Indian woman held the pendant higher, forcing Cecilia to look slightly upwards to keep it in her field of vision.  The Englishwoman felt strangely immobilized, her eyes locked on the little purple stone.

“Now observe what happens,” Tanvi noted, “when I do… this…”

The pendant began swinging back and forth, back and forth, in a slow, lazy arch.

A distant memory stirred in Cecilia.  As a curious teenager, she’d once found a worn copy of Fraser's Magazine in her father’s study.  In it, there was an article about something called “hypnotism,” a word Cecilia had never seen before.  The author described a process where a person could be put into a strange sleep, and then they would be under the control of the “hypnotist.”  There was an ink-print of a blank-faced young lady staring as a gentleman dangled a pocket-watch before her eyes.  The caption explained that the woman was being hypnotized.

Now, as Tanvi’s medallion leisurely danced before her eyes, Cecilia thought of that young woman and this strange, hypnotic sleep.  Curiously, she did feel somewhat sleepy.  Her feet did not seem to be able to move.

“Yes, _sahiba_ , you begin to see,” murmured Tanvi, sounding pleased.  “Stare deeper.  Let the magic please your eyes.  You will feel calm.”

“I-“ Cecilia started to say.

“Shhh!  Do not speak,” cautioned her servant.  “Not yet.  For now, silence is best.  The magic works best when you focus with your eyes.”

 _The magic works best… how?_ is what Cecilia wanted to say.  But somehow her voice wasn’t functioning.

“Yes,” said Tanvi warmly.  “You will feel it soon.  A peacefulness will descend over you, _sahiba_.  Let it flow into your mind.  You are relaxing, relaxing so well.”

And then the Indian woman began a steady stream of words, telling Cecilia how the magic was embracing her, allowing her body to cleanse itself with her thoughts alone.  The pendant swung back and forth before her, somehow growing larger and brighter in her field of vision.  She could not look away.  She could not move her head or limbs; only her eyes could sweep side-to-side, and only to track the little purple stone.

The young Englishwoman felt her legs, then her arms relax and seemingly detach from her.  She felt both twenty feet tall and smaller than a dormouse at the same time.  The room around her seemed to stretch out for miles in all directions.  Tanvi’s constant voice flowed on, and Cecilia found that she became focused on those silken words… although she did not always remember what they said.

As the pendant grew larger, Cecilia’s confusion and trepidation melted away.  As Tanvi promised, a strange peace was settling over her mind.  So many things now seemed unimportant.  Cecilia forgot that she was naked.  She forgot she was in India.  She forgot about the Maharaja, Mr. Turpin, even poor Clement.  Only Tanvi swam in her thoughts.  The pendant called out to her, willing her to let go, to surrender to the bliss of obedience.

“And now, _sahiba_ ,” Tanvi told her, “I will touch you on the forehead, once.  When I do, you will happily do whatever I command of you.  It will feel perfectly natural to obey my instructions.  You will have no thoughts or desires of your own.  Obey, now.”

The pendant vanished from Cecilia’s vision.  At the same time, Tanvi’s thin fingers appeared, tapping the Englishwoman above the eyebrows, just once.  The motion was swift and gentle.

Cecilia tried speak.  Her body felt leaden, and she was powerless to do anything but blankly stare straight ahead.

“Walk to the bed,” Tanvi told her.

Suddenly, Cecilia felt the strongest urge to do exactly that.  As if sleepwalking, her body turned and moved to the large bed.

“Climb on the mattress,” ordered the Indian woman.  “Lie on your back.”

Once again, Cecilia was overcome with the compulsion to do as she was bid.  She felt she could resist if she desired… but somehow the will to resist wasn’t there.  Obeying felt so **_good_**.

As the naked Englishwoman settled onto the mattress, Tanvi climbed up beside her.  There was a long ribbon hanging from the canopy above; the Indian servant woman reached up to grasp it.

“Place your head here,” she instructed, patting one of the pillows.  As Cecilia shifted over to comply, Tanvi’s hands moved quickly about the ribbon.

Soon the necklace was tied to the thin strip of silk.  Cecilia, staring straight up, found that the pendant was directly above her.  Once again, her eyes were enslaved by the sparkling purple stone.  She couldn’t look away.

“Very good, _sahiba_ ,” Tanvi said warmly.  “You are feeling so relaxed and obedient.  You will happily follow all of my instructions without thought or resistance.  This is so, yes?”

“Yes,” Cecilia said dully.  Her own thoughts felt muffled and confused.

“Yes, _sahiba_ , yes.”  The Indian woman began running a loving hand over Cecilia’s naked body.  She sighed appreciatively.  “When I first found this crystal, I realized that I could use it to fog the mind of whomever I wished.  But sadly, the effect was only temporary.  Once I removed the crystal from their vision, my victims returned to normal.  Remembering nothing, of course.”

Cecilia didn’t reply.  Deep within her, she knew she was being controlled, and she didn’t like it.  Yet her body refused to move.

“But then,” Tanvi continued, smiling, “I learned of the crystal’s **_true_** power.  It is a mind-enslaver, but only under one circumstance.  If you were to… experience blossom… while in its thrall, you would lose your free will forever, _sahiba_.  Your mind would obey me, even when you are not looking into the purple stone.”  She laughed quietly.  “You would be in my power for the rest of your life.”

The Indian woman’s hand slid down over Cecilia’s stomach.  “Spread your legs, _sahiba_ ,” she murmured.

Cecilia’s legs parted.  Tanvi’s fingers slid down over her waiting vagina.

“And now, _sahiba_ ,” the mesmerist whispered, “you are becoming aroused.  Yes, so aroused.  You will relax deeper, and as you relax, you will feel yourself becoming wet and desirous.  Wet and desirous…”

Tanvi’s voice had become low, silky, yet commanding.  Cecilia felt her own body responding, as if her mind was pushed off to the side and no longer in control.  She did feel herself in heat.  Her breathing quickened.  The crystal pendant, still dangling before her eyes, grew larger and sparkled more.

At the same, a voice in the back of Cecilia’s mind grew frightened.  Nothing of what Tanvi said made any sense – honestly, a crystal that cast a mind-spell over you once you sexually climaxed?  How ridiculous!

But nonetheless, the Englishwoman sensed she was in danger.

 _I mustn’t climax,_ she numbly told herself, fighting the hypnotic spell.  _I mustn’t feel pleasure!  I mustn’t!_

Desperately, Cecilia tried to think of Clement.  If only they had not been parted!

“You resist, _sahiba?_ ” Tanvi’s voice rippled.  The beautiful Indian woman sounded amused.  “Most understandable.  But there is no resisting your own body.”  Her gentle fingers slipped into the outer folds of Cecilia’s vagina.  “I need only touch you, and you will be swept away…”

And Tanvi began stroking the entranced Englishwoman.  Cecilia let out a shaky breath.

 _I mustn’t… climax…_ she thought again.

But the pleasure was building within her loins.  Her vagina, charmed by Tanvi’s expert touch, was purring like a spoiled cat.  Gentle waves of delight were tingling beneath her soft skin.

“Yes, _sahiba_ , enjoy this gift,” Tanvi murmured.  “Let go.  Surrender.  Allow yourself to taste this extasy, and you will be mine forever.  Don’t you want to be my slave?” she asked coyly.  “To have no will, except what I give you?  Won’t that feel…”  And here, Tanvi pressed against Cecilia’s clit.  “… ** _wonderful?_** ”

Cecilia let out a low moan, despite herself.

The crystal pendant grew even larger in her vision.  Perhaps it was Cecilia’s imagination, but it seemed as if the strange, purple stone was speaking to her, too.  _You will submit,_ it intoned, using a ghostly but powerful voice.  _You cannot resist the old magic.  Become a slave, willingly._

Tanvi’s fingers were rubbing Cecilia faster, and the Englishwoman realized her vagina was extremely wet.  Her hips were actually leaning forward, pressing into Tanvi’s touch as much as possible.  Cecilia’s legs were tense.  Her breathing was deep and quickening.

 _No, no, I mustn’t…!_ she desperately reminded herself.

But the pleasure Tanvi was feeding her was growing too hard to ignore.  Her vagina loved the attention, singing and laughing with each stroke of the Indian woman’s fingers.  Her touch felt so good, **_so damned good…_**   Cecilia hadn’t experienced sexual delight like this for a long, long time.

“Let go, _sahiba_ ,” coaxed Tanvi.

 _Submit_ , demanded the crystal.

 _I mustn’t…!_ Cecilia thought feebly.  Her will was losing strength.

Now Tanvi was stroking even faster, pressing harder and harder against Cecilia’s special spot.  The young Englishwoman’s legs were trembling, and her back was arching.  Her dry throat began moaning, “Oh…!  Oh…!  Oh…!” over and over.

She was losing control.

“Come now, _sahiba_ ,” chuckled the beautiful Indian.  “You want to blossom, I can feel it.  You desire it **_soooo much_** , yes?  Give in, and let your body celebrate.  Here, I will help you…”

Tanvi leaned over Cecilia’s nude, trembling form, and extended her tongue.  With delicate precision, she began licking the outside of one of Cecilia’s erect nipples.  Her mouth was gentle and loving.  At the same time, her hand stroked even faster.

 _Submit_ , commanded the crystal.

“Ohhhhhh…!” Cecilia wailed, the last shreds of her resistance crumbling.  She wanted to climax, she wanted it so badly.

 _This is nonsense,_ her jumbled thoughts said.  _How can a stone mentally enslave one with a sexual orgasm?  It makes no sense.  It is probably fine to climax._

_How could anything bad happen?_

That thought swept away the last concern Cecilia had.  She could resist no more.  Like a starving man unable to resist the smell of fresh bread, she gave in to her deepest desire.

Cecilia orgasmed.

Her hips bucked, hard.  And then she felt her juices flowing, joyously, celebrating.  Cecilia was shouting out loud, yet she was unaware she was doing so.  Her orgasm felt like a river of wonderful delight, a parade of blissful feelings, a thundercrack of enough sexual energy to split the earth in two.  Wave after wave of celebration cascaded through her, making her fingers and toes curl in sheer happiness.  She thought she’d never known such wonder.

Cecilia gasped and moaned and sighed and laughed, all at the same time.  She trembled, loving how her body felt and how incredible the universe felt in that moment.  Her mind was swept away, and she didn’t care.

Eventually, the Englishwoman’s muscles relaxed, lowering her back onto the soft bedsheets.  She sighed, a long, low sigh.

She felt wonderful.

The pleasure faded… but mercifully took a long time.  Cecilia writhed about the mattress, to enjoy the lingering aftertaste of sheer joy.  She felt as if the world contained nothing but delight and love.

And then…

Cecilia found herself lying on the bed, her mind returning to the world she knew.  She was panting heavily.  A thin layer of sweat covered her brow and back muscles.

Smiling widely, the young woman rolled over.  Tanvi was still kneeling on the mattress beside her.  The Indian woman was watching her carefully.

Their gazes met.

“How do you feel?” Tanvi asked levelly.

Cecilia’s grin grew even larger.  “So wonderful,” she confessed.  She felt her cheeks glow.

“Very good,” complimented the Indian servant woman.  Her voice became steely.  “Now, my slave, you will remove my clothing.  And then you will pleasure me with your mouth.”

Cecilia’s mind went blank.  “I obey, mistress,” she said happily.

*** *** ***

Tanvi collected her necklace, once again slipping it around her throat.  Then she reclined onto the mattress.  Her bright eyes held Cecilia in a piercing, appreciative gaze.

Cecilia, feeling as if she hadn’t a care in the world, went to work.  She carefully loosened the robes of her mistress, taking care to expose her darker flesh with only gentle movements.  Tanvi made no move to assist, beyond lifting a leg or arm or hip when needed.  The Indian woman was openly gloating over her mastery of the Englishwoman.

Her newest slave didn’t mind in the slightest.  It was as if Tanvi’s commands, once spoken, sat prominently in Cecilia’s mind and could not be ignored.  The young woman had not the slightest thought of resistance or disobedience.  She wanted nothing but to complete her mistress’s wishes.

When Tanvi was nude, Cecilia gently spread the Indian woman’s knees.  Of course, the young ballerina had never seen another woman’s vagina, let alone tasted one.  But Cecilia was an imaginative girl.  She knew what she would want if she were in Tanvi’s position.

So she lowered her mouth to Tanvi’s lips.  She kissed the salty outside of her mistress, then pressed forward.  Her probing tongue pushed into the Indian woman’s chamber, delighted to find that Tanvi was already wet.

The Indian woman sighed contentedly, closed her eyes, and bit her lip.

*** *** ***


	6. The Shaaheenartak Dancer

It was early morning.

Cecilia awoke, feeling as if she had slept for a year.  Her limbs were heavy and slow to respond to her brain’s commands.  Her thoughts stumbled about inside her skull, jumbled and discordant.

Where was she?  She was lying in her grand bed, in her Ratiramshree Palace suite.  The sunlight was streaming through the gauze curtains.  Far, far in the distance, river birds were squawking over the Betwa’s calm waters.

With some effort, Cecilia pulled herself out of bed, and was surprised to discover that she was utterly naked.  Her body felt sweaty and sticky, as if she’d been in a Turkish sauna for hours.

 _How odd,_ the young woman thought, confused.

Even more unusual, Cecilia was completely alone.  Her servants, Diya and Pihu, were no-where to be seen.  Didn’t they prepare her for bed last night?

Cecilia frowned.  Actually, she couldn’t remember.  She couldn’t remember anything from last night, nothing at all.  The harder she tried to recall anything, the more her memory drew a blank.

After puzzling over the vague gap in her memory, the Englishwoman shrugged.  She moved to the dressing area and drew a bath for herself.

*** *** ***

As usual, Clement was seated at the banquet table and already eating when Cecilia found him.

“Darling,” the Englishwoman said lightly, “you know its bad manners to begin a meal before your spouse.”

“Oh…” replied Clement, looking chastised.  “Yes, quite right.  Er, sorry, darling.”  He set down his toast.

“Well, how was the elephant hunt?” Cecilia asked, settling into the next chair.  She plucked a napkin from the table and spread it across her narrow lap.

Clement frowned.  “Beastly.  I must say, our English brethren, they can make for some rather appalling guests in this country.”  He shook his head.  “The hunting party, they simply marched across the grassland, blasting at every sleeping elephant they saw.  The plains are now littered with the dead creatures, left to rot away under the sun, I suppose.”

He scowled.  “I assumed they would shoot one, maybe two.  That would have been sporting.  But they drank heavily and then set out to wipe out every last elephant, just for fun.  The elephant is a sacred animal in India, you know.”

“Oh, goodness,” Cecilia murmured.  “What will happen then the locals find out?”

Clement offered a dark glance.  “There will be trouble, of that I’m sure.”

He paused.  “Darling,” he said worriedly, “you wouldn’t leave the palace, would you?  I mean, not without an escort or some protection, right?”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Cecilia said tartly.

“Good,” nodded Clement.

The young reporter reached over and patted his wife’s hand.

“I’m headed back to Jhansi Fort today,” Clement said, reaching for the butter.  “I’m concerned that the English will provoke another revolution, especially if this bad behavior keeps up.  The locals, they are not happy.”

*** *** ***

Adi was working in the library when Cecilia entered.  She paused for a moment to admire the newly-organized stacks, pleased that a few of the palace’s English guests were actually browsing for something to read.

“Very well, then,” she smiled at Adi.  “Let’s continue our labors, shall we?”

*** *** ***

The work went much quicker.  Cecilia and Adi worked side-by-side, learning to anticipate one another and often splitting tasks without verbal discussion first.  They were a good team.

All the while, Cecilia patiently watched her younger partner.  Adi no longer tensed in her presence, and occasionally when she asked a question, he responded without the stuffy, formal tone of a servant.  He seemed to be warming to her charms.

Finally, once they’d completed A through G in the Fiction section, Cecilia decided to risk a little small talk.  “Tell me,” she asked absently, “does your family live in the city?”

“Oh no, _sahiba_ ,” demurred the young man.  “My parents have been dead many, many years.  I have no family.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cecilia said quickly.

Adi shrugged.  “It is not so bad for me,” he told her.  “I am lucky to find a position in the Maharaja’s house, especially after the Uprising.”

Cecilia’s ears perked up.  Taking care to sound disinterested, she said, “Oh, so you were in the Uprising, then?”

“I was,” Adi murmured.  He glanced over at the other English patrons, a worried expression on his face.

“I apologize,” Cecilia said quickly.  “I didn’t mean-“

Adi waved away her fraught expression.  “It is fine, _sahiba_.  You are a good person, I see that.  The other English… perhaps not so much.”

Cecilia was dying to ask more questions.  But she feared another inquiry would make Adi uncomfortable.  So she held her tongue and bided her time.

*** *** ***

Three more hours passed, with more English guests wandering into the library.  “My goodness,” one exclaimed, “I had no idea this was here!”

While the patronage was satisfying, it also prevented Cecilia from prying more deeply into Adi’s past.  The young man was uncomfortable around all the English, save just Cecilia.  She would have to wait until the two of them here alone before resuming her investigation.

*** *** ***

Finally, perhaps an hour before teatime, the library was empty.

Adi was up on the ladder, arranging the top shelf as Cecilia handed up titles.  He glanced about, as if confirming that they were alone.

“I must ask you something important, _sahiba_ ,” he said in a low, but urgent, voice.

“Oh?” Cecilia responded, surprised.

Adi swarmed down the ladder to stand before her.  “Last night,” he said, concerned.  “You were safe from Mr. Turpin?”

Cecilia stared at him blankly.

“You remember?” prodded Adi.  “I warned you… about Mr. Turpin?”

Cecilia frowned.  She remembered nothing of the kind.

“I… uh…” was all she could manage.

Puzzled, Adi leaned closer.  “I warned you,” he coaxed.  “The Mr. Turpin was going to come to your room, to…  well…”  His brow furrowed.  “You do not remember?” he said, astonished.

Cecilia had absolutely no memory of anything the boy was describing.  But she couldn’t remember a thing from last night at all.  A feeling of alarm tugged at her.

“Tell me again,” she instructed.

Adi looked suspicious, but complied.  “Last night,” he related, “I overheard-“

“Boy!” a male voice boomed out.

Cecilia and Adi both jumped.  Standing at the end of the stacks was Mr. Azad, his arms folded across his narrow chest.  A look of disapproval simmered on his face.

“Oh!” Cecilia exclaimed, placing a hand over her pounding heart.  “Mr. Azad, I didn’t hear-“

“What is happening here?” demanded the manservant.

The Englishwoman straightened, not caring for his tone.  “Adi and I were in consolation,” she replied coolly.

Mr. Azad strode up, his suspicious eyes blazing.  “It is a poor idea to converse so freely with the servants of the palace, _sahiba_ ,” he intoned.  “In India, the division between master and servant is strict, and for a good reason.”

Before Cecilia could retort, Mr. Azad turned on the frightened Adi.  “Leave us,” he growled.

Without hesitation, Adi turned and fled.

“Now see here,” Cecilia objected, her hands curling into angry fists.

Mr. Azad passed a hand over her face.  “ _Paalan karen aur paalan karen,_ ” he told her firmly.

Suddenly Cecilia felt strange.  Her thoughts vanished within her mind, like a candle flame extinguished by a sudden puff of air.  An odd calm settled over her.  She stood motionless, her body relaxing, her eyes blankly staring up at Mr. Azad.

“You will come with me,” the tall man ordered.

And Cecilia had to obey him.  She was wistfully happy to obey him.  Without a word, she followed the manservant out of the library.  No-one saw them depart.

*** *** ***

Mr. Azad moved through the palace without once glancing about; he knew exactly where he was going.  Cecilia tagged after him, unable to think or speak, only able to do exactly as she’d been instructed.

The two moved down the corridor, through a small door, then descended a dimly-lit servants’ staircase.  The steps took them deep into the palace’s innards, beneath the pleasure-levels where the English and the aristocrats enjoyed the Maharaja’s luxuries.  Down here, the stone walls were simple and drab.  The floors were not swept.  The air was stale.

Mr. Azad moved onward, through a narrow hallway, then through two more.  Palace servants stared at him and his entranced companion, but no-one dared say a word.

Finally the manservant arrived at a simple wooden door.  He knocked once.

The door opened almost immediately.  Inside, a beautiful Indian woman, hidden by the shadows, gestured to him and Cecilia.  Both stepped inside.

The room was wide, but sparsely-furnished.  Simple wooden chairs were arranged around a table, and on the table were strange clothes, neatly folded.  Two large candles provided the only light.

After Azad and Cecilia entered, the beautiful Indian woman shut and locked the door.  Her long hair swirled about her as she moved.

In a flash, Cecilia knew this woman’s name:  Tanvi!  Her name was Tanvi!  She seemed familiar… yet Cecilia had no idea how.

“You took too long,” Tanvi snapped at Mr. Azad.  “We only have a little time.”

Immediately a look of cringing fear crossed over Azad’s face.  “Forgive me, General,” he said immediately.  “The _sahiba_ ,” – and here, he indicated Cecilia – “she was not in her chambers.  I had to search-“

“I do **_not_** care for excuses,” Tanvi said angrily.  “If we miss our opportunity, you will pay dearly.”

Mr. Azad’s face paled.  “Yes, General,” he muttered.

The Indian woman moved to stand before Cecilia.  “You will remove your clothes, _sahiba_ ,” she ordered, touching Cecilia lightly on the forehead.

An irresistible desire to please possessed the young Englishwoman.  “I obey, mistress,” she heard her voice say out loud.

And then, Cecilia’s hands went to work, unwinding the Indian sari that she was wearing.  She undressed quickly, and without the slightest shame or hesitation.

Tanvi stepped back, studying Cecilia as her nude body unveiled itself.  “You were lucky to find this one, Azad,” she remarked.  “A former dancer?  With my commands in her mind, she will become the perfect agent.  Our target has resisted my earlier attempts… but he will be unable to resist her.”

“Yes, General,” Mr. Azad agreed.

The final garment fell to the floor.  Cecilia was naked now.  Without further instruction, she simply stood, her clothes cast to the floor.  Her mind, clouded by powerful magic, was a blank.  She gazed at the wall with unfocused eyes.

With slow, predatory steps, Tanvi walked in a circle around her entranced victim.  As she studied Cecilia’s lean muscles, ample bosom, slender frame, and porcelain-like skin, the Indian woman fingered the purple medallion that hung around her own neck.

“Mmm…” the female hypnotist said, permitting a sly smirk, “she is a magnificent woman, is she not?  A prize I will personally enjoy long after she has assisted the plan.”

Mr. Azad did not reply.

Taking her time, Tanvi moved to stand directly before her English slave.  Enjoying herself, she cupped Cecilia’s naked breasts.

“Kiss me,” demanded Tanvi.

Without hesitation, Cecilia stepped forward, pressing her body against her mistress.  She leaned forward, closed her eyes, and touched her lips to Tanvi’s, with the slightest of pressure.  The two mouths embraced.

Mr. Azad watched, making no expression or comment.

“Mmm,” Tanvi mumbled in pleasure, her hands sliding down Cecilia’s body, over her nude hips, then resting atop the Englishwoman’s buttocks.  The kiss deepened.  And then deepened again.

Tanvi grinned wickedly, breaking the kiss.

“Yes,” she smirked.  “Miss Cecilia will do very well as our pawn.  Make the preparations.”

Mr. Azad, his face still ashen, bowed.  Then he turned and fled from the room, pulling the wooden door shut behind him.

Tanvi leaned in to kiss Cecilia once again.

*** *** ***

In Ratiramshree’s Grand Foyer, the servants were changing the floral arrangements.  Another team of housekeepers were drawing the curtains.  The sun was setting, and soon the Maharaja’s English guests would be expecting supper.  There many preparations to make.

Growing impatient, Geoff Turpin watched all this activity from a corner of the Great Hall.  The Royal Envoy fingered his elephant’s head cane, his moustache bristling.  It had been a long time since anyone had dared to keep him waiting.

Finally, the object of his ire, Mr. Azad, appeared from a side chamber.  The Indian manservant hurried to his employer’s side, already making the clasped hand gesture of apology as he approached.

“A thousand pardons, _sahib_ , a thousand,” he wheezed, his face flush.  “There were many matters I needed to-“

“ ** _Where have you been?_** ” thundered Mr. Turpin, not caring that everyone in the hall could hear him.  “ ** _I expected you more than-_** “

“Please, please, _sahib_ ,” Mr. Azad begged, bowing even lower.  “I was investigating that… special matter… you asked me to do.”

Mr. Turpin paused, his rage tempered by other desires.  “Cecilia Irvington?” he asked, his voice lowered.  “Yes, yes, man, spit it out!  Where is she?”

The Indian manservant gasped, still heaving for breath.  “I…  I do not know, _sahib_ ,” he confessed.

The Royal Envoy almost flew into another rage.  “ ** _You don’t-_** “

Quickly, Mr. Azad cried out, “But I have secured another prize for you, _sahib_!  One that will make you forget Mrs. Irvington.  Yes, yes!”

Mr. Turpin paused.  “What do you mean?”

“I have secured an evening with one of the _Shaaheenartak_ , sir.  One of the Maharaja’s own pleasure girls.  No Westerner has ever been allowed to touch them before.”  Azad bowed low.  “You will have one of them for yourself… but only if you come now.”

The Royal Envoy’s eyebrows rose.  He’d seen the _Shaaheenartak_ about the palace, of course.  They were lovely women, perhaps as beautiful as Cecilia herself.  The stuffy Englishman had always resented that the Maharaja had them, quietly tucked away where his people could not see them.

But these pleasure-women were local beauties, Indian women.  The Royal Envoy desired only European women.

Reading his master perfectly, Mr. Azad leaned in.  “The newest _Shaaheenartak_ … she is a European, _sahib_ ,” he breathed.  “French, I believe?  Captured by Arabian slavers, then turned into a sexual tigress by the Maharaja’s most potent opium.  Her skin is white, _sahib_.  She is in heat, _and she awaits you…!_ ”

These last words were too much for Mr. Turpin.  The Royal Envoy licked his lips.

“Take me to her,” he ordered.  “Now.”

*** *** ***

Mr. Azad led his employer up a secondary staircase, and then through a royal archway.  The palace guards eyed the Indian and Englishman, but said nothing.  They wouldn’t dare harm the Royal Envoy.

Soon, Mr. Azad had located a small, private chamber.  This circular room was painted in swirling cream colors, and fine silks hung from the ceilings.  The floor was tiled, but thick Indian seating cushions were arranged for sitting.  The only light was a single oil lamp, dimly flickering from above.

This was a room for lounging.  And entertaining willing young ladies.

“Ah,” Mr. Turpin harrumphed, secretly pleased.  “Yes…  Yes, this will do!  You’ve done well, Azad.  For once.  Where is the girl?”

“I will send for her, _sahib,_ ” murmured Mr. Azad.  He bowed and departed, never once making eye contact with his master.

Grinning, Mr. Turpin kicked off his shoes, gently leaned his cane against the wall, and then made himself comfortable.  The Maharaja, himself quite fond of physical pleasure, certainly knew how to live.  If only Mr. Turpin could convince the Crown to depose the man and install **_himself_** as the ruler of India!

A side door opened.  A young, beautiful woman slipped into the chamber, moving without a sound.  Mr. Turpin stared in aroused wonder.

Oh, the girl was divine in appearance.  Divine!  A veil covered her nose and mouth, but Turpin could see her soft, hazel eyes sparkle.  The girl wore a tiny two-piece pleasure dancer’s costume, which covered only her breasts above and her hips below.  Strips of the thinnest silk hung from her waist, creating the illusion that she wore a long skirt.  But as the lovely woman moved, her naked legs were easily glimpsed between the ribbons.

Mr. Turpin’s breath sucked in.  The dancer’s toned flesh was on full display, especially, her long, lean stomach and shapely chest.  Her bare arms revealed tight muscles, suggesting her entire body was similarly built.  The dancer’s feet were bare, and the Royal Envoy’s heart leapt when he realized she wore matching rings on both of her long toes.  He was excited by women’s feet.

The dancer moved to shut the door behind her, twirling her body about to do so in a playful way.  As she turned, Turpin saw her from behind.  The dancer’s outfit was minimal, making it appear that her back was completely exposed.  Her bottom was tight and perky, and Turpin loved how those two buttocks rose and fell as she repeatedly shifted her weight from one leg to another and then back again.

With a soft click, the door shut.  The dancer swiveled about again, now squarely facing Turpin.  She raised her head high, which caused her full, round breasts to jut outward.

“Might I dance for you, _sahib?_ ” she murmured, those hazel eyes sparkling in a playful way.

Turpin’s mouth fell open.  “You…” he exclaimed, “…you’re an Englishwomen!”

The girl laughed, and extended her muscled arms out in a dancer’s posture.  Those curvy hips began to swivel.  The silk ribbons were whipped up into a froth about her legs.

Now Turpin was in a state of wonder.  “Who are you?” he demanded, his eyes locked on those bouncing breasts.

“I am but one of His Highness’s humble _Shaaheenartak_ ,” the woman replied, her shoulders getting into the dance.  Softly, she added, “It is my hope that I please you, _sahib_.”

And then, the beautiful dancer lowered her eyelids.  Her body moved with a seductive grace that was mesmerizing to watch.  Her hips and that sleek, toned belly swayed back and forth, almost as if the girl’s body was a pendulum.  She extended her arms out to the side, opening her slender hands up to the ceiling.  Her bare feet gracefully rose and fell as she danced.  Her sexual energy was undeniable.

Mr. Turpin gaped; he couldn’t help it.  He’d seen many other beautiful young women, of course, and in various states of undress.  And the Good Lord knew that he’d eyed plenty of dancer’s bodies in his years.

All of those women were erased from his mind now.  The luscious dancer before him was dizzyingly intoxicating.  He couldn’t think.

The woman suddenly clasped her hands together in the prayer formation.  Her legs closed, and she swayed her hips back and forth in a crazy, serpentine rhythm.  As the silk ribbons flew, Turpin could see her bare legs, naked up past her hips.  He longed to run his hands up those legs.

“Sit back, _sahib_ ,” the dancer commanded softly.

Although her English accent was stirring Turpin’s curiosity, the Royal Envoy did as he was told.  He reclined across the floor cushions, almost lying on his side now.

The dancer sighed happily and arched her back.  Once more, she separated her feet, taking a wide stance.  As if trying to escape, her shoulders shimmied wildly, which caused her breasts to tremble.  More than once, Mr. Turpin hoped they would pop out from under her small costume.

There was no music, no sound except for the woman’s husky breathing.  The room smelled of faded incense and stale sweat.  To a man like Mr. Turpin, this was arousing in the extreme.  He felt like an emperor, fresh from another conquest, and about to enjoy his latest reward.

Yes, he would have sex with this girl, that much the Royal Envoy had already decided.  She was too desirable, too alluring for him to resist.  He would take her, by force, if necessary.

It was the girl’s fault, really, Mr. Turpin reflected.  She was too beautiful, too luscious.  How could a good man like him resist?  There was only so much restraint he could be expected to manage.  Besides, using force might not be necessary.  Even now, the dancer was watching him closely, unmistakable arousal in her eyes.  She **_wanted_** him.  The sheen of sweat appearing on her flesh was not just from her dancing; she was in heat, too.

As if reading his mind, the woman danced until she was almost standing over Mr. Turpin, those delicious bare feet just inches from his own stout chest.  She towered over him, allowing the Envoy to stare up the length of her body, up her legs, her stomach, and the underneath of her round breasts.  They were exposed from underneath.

“You find me desirable, _sahib?_ ” the dancer moaned.

“Yes,” panted Turpin.

Did she just smile?

“Lie on your back, my lord,” she whispered.

Not hesitating, Turpin obeyed.  He was delighted as the woman stepped over him, her small body now straddling his barrel-like frame.

Now the dancer’s hips moved in wide, lazy circles.  She raised her arms high over her head, which held her shoulders and breasts in place.  Her knees bent, slowly lowering herself down to squat upon her captivated audience.

Mr. Turpin couldn’t bare it anymore.  His greedy hands flew up and embraced the woman’s thighs.  With a little pressure, he forced her to kneel, straddling his own hips.  His erect cock pushed upward, and would be touching her vagina if not for their clothes.

“Do I excite you, _sahib?_ ” the dancer teased.  “Good.  I was sent here to please you…”  In a voice dripping with honey, she added, “…in **_every_** way.”

She leaned forward, placing her small hand on Turpin’s chest for balance.  As her face drew closer to his own, the Royal Envoy thought his heart might burst.

He had to kiss her.  He **_had_** to.

With an almost savage motion, Turpin grabbed the veil and then pulled it over the woman’s head.  Her face was exposed.

In the dim light, Turpin merely saw the woman grin lustfully.  She leaned forward even more, bringing her lips to his.  He felt that thin little body – and those delightful breasts – press against him.

Her mouth tasted sweet, as if she’d applied sugar to her lips.

The kiss was soft and gently, and over far too soon.  As the dancer raised her head, a groggy Mr. Turpin stared up at her.

Suddenly his heart pounded.  He knew this woman!

“Cecilia?” he exclaimed in wonder.

It **_was_** Cecilia.  Cecilia Irvington!  There was no doubt!  There, floating before him, was the face of the perfect beauty he’d been lusting for, ever since that chance encounter on the train.  Mr. Turpin stared at those red lips, those crafted cheeks, those soulful hazel eyes, now gazing down at him.

For the first time, the Royal Envoy wondered if he was dreaming.

Cecilia smiled, and gently kissed him once more.  He could not resist.

“How… how is it that…” the Royal Envoy stammered.  “You can’t be…  Cecilia, how…?”

The near-nude woman flashed a mischievous smile.  “Oh, _sahib_ ,” she clucked, “I am but one of the Maharaja’s dancers.  Nothing more.”  She laughed again.  “Come, let me show you something.  Then I am all yours.”

The woman’s slender fingers rose up to her neck, and for the first time, Turpin realized that she was wearing a thin necklace.  Suspended on the tiny gold chain was a strange, dull stone pendant, perhaps purple in color.  But… was this stone sparkling?  It couldn’t be.

Cecilia moved to hold the pendant before Turpin’s eyes.  At the same time, she shifted her weight to lie directly beside him; this allowed her free hand to explore down his body.  Her free hand went to work pulling on his belt.

The pendant was sparkling, Mr. Turpin was sure of that now.  He’d never seen a stone quite like it.  Although Cecilia’s presence was driving him mad with desire, there was something about this dull purple rock that fascinated him.  It was oddly captivating.

 _Perhaps this is a new mineral discovered here in Jhansi,_ he thought lazily.  _Something I can make the locals mine for me.  I’ll ship it back to London, and make my fortune that way._   He could envision his future business already: Turpin’s Pleasure Rocks, a crystal from the Far East that was both decorative and seductive at the same time.

“Mmm,” Cecilia moaned, beside him.  “I want your cock, _sahib_.  **_I want it._**   Please help me?”

She wanted sexual intercourse.  Without thinking, Turpin reached down, ripping open his belt and then the front of his trousers.  His eyes never left the purple stone that she dangled before him.

“Oh,” the dancer sighed happily, and Turpin felt her fingers slip beneath his underdrawers.  She touched his erect shaft, her touch the lightest imaginable.  Instantly, he felt ripples of delight tingle through his body.

“Now listen to me, my love,” Cecilia whispered into his ear.  Her hand was stroking his penis, slowly.  “I will pleasure you, and you will climax like you never have before.  You will be unable to resist me.  When you experience your delight, you will feel so happy.  So happy.  And then you will fall into a deep, deep sleep, where you will be my slave… forever…”

Mr. Turpin couldn’t have heard that right.  She would cause him to climax now?  No, no, he wanted to climax **_inside_** her.  He wanted her naked and trapped beneath him as he hammered his cock into her soft, wet womanhood.  He would fuck her so hard, the wretched souls down in the palace dungeons would hear her screams of ecstasy.  That was what he wanted.

And what was this business about… her slave?  No, that made no sense…  No sense…

Mr. Turpin’s thoughts broke up.  Cecilia’s hand had turned to magic, pumping sheer excitement into his cock.  He felt light-headed.  His legs tensed.  His breathing was harsh and jagged.  His heart pounded.

“That’s right, _sahib_ ,” coaxed Cecilia, “climax for me.  Climax, and I am yours…”

Cecilia moved her foot, absently bumping the elephant-head cane.  The walking-stick clattered to the floor.

The young woman must have meant that **_she_** would become **_his_** slave.  Yes, that was it.  Briefly, the Royal Envoy pictured a completely naked Cecilia, a slave collar about her elegant neck, chained to his bed.  She would be his for…

Turpin ejaculated.  His cock roared to life and he was spouting as if an explosion had detonated inside him.  The feeling of raw pleasure and power was overwhelming.  The stimulated man grunted and squealed with raptured joy.

“Yes…!” Cecilia said, sounding delighted.

Her hand slowed, allowing Turpin to fully enjoy his orgasm.  Hot, sticky semen splattered over his suit vest and lap, and yet he didn’t care.  The man kicked, arching his back a little.

And then… the chemical delight was spent.  He felt his climax fade and then vanish.  His cock, supremely happy, began to soften in Cecilia’s fingers.

Suddenly, Turpin’s mind clouded over.  He felt irresistibly sleepy.  As his last independent thoughts dissolved, the Envoy shut his eyes and surrendered to the magic which had captured him.

*** *** ***


	7. A Gift for the Maharaja

“Excellent, _sahiba_ ,” smiled Tanvi.

The mesmerizing Indian woman had now assumed command of Mr. Turpin’s expansive suite.  Much larger and more opulent than Cecilia’s, the Royal Envoy’s rooms included a smoking parlor, with thick, leather couches facing one another and lavish Indian paintings on the walls.  A model of the HMS Victory, a symbol of Britain’s military supremacy, rested on the hearth’s mantelpiece.

Tanvi stood at the center of the parlor, her slender arms folded behind her back.  Although she was dressed in a servant’s plain _mekhela_ and _chador_ , there was no doubt that she was the master of this room.  She stood tall, her head high.  Mr. Azad stood by her side.

Standing before the Indian woman mastermind was Cecilia and the now-entranced Mr. Turpin.  Cecilia was still dressed in her dancing costume, and rested one guiding hand on Mr. Turpin’s shoulder.

“His mind is under my complete control, mistress,” Cecilia reported, her tone casual.

The Indian woman smiled, pleased.  “You’ve done well, _sahiba_ ,” she complimented.

Cecilia smiled.  She dropped her hand to her side, stepping back from the motionless Mr. Turpin.

Tanvi stepped forward, then gripped Mr. Turpin by the jaw and turned his head slightly.  He did not resist her.

“Ah…” the female mesmerist gloated, caressing Mr. Turpin’s cheek with her palm, “how I’ve longed for this moment.”

Standing off to the side, Mr. Azad’s face betrayed concern.  “What are you planning?” he asked carefully.

Tanvi didn’t respond immediately.  The beautiful hypnotist folded her arms over her chest, still relishing her victory.  “I’m not certain,” she admitted.  “When I first came here, all I thought about was hypnotizing the Maharaja.  But he is too well secluded.”

“Well, now you control Turpin,” Mr. Azad said, almost impatiently.  “Command Turpin to depose the Maharaja and then place me on the throne.”  He bowed quickly.  “As your figurehead, of course, mistress.  That was always our agreement.”

Tanvi made a face.  “I remember our agreement, little worm,” she scowled.  “You question my honor?”

“No, no, General, of course not,” Mr. Azad said very quickly.  He made a bow of submission.

“Be careful not to offend me again,” the Indian woman said coldly, “or I’ll turn the crystal on you and enslave your mind too.”

There was a pause as Tanvi continued studying the blank-faced Mr. Turpin.  “Still,” she said thoughtfully, “putting the Maharaja under my power will still be necessary for the plan.  Turpin may control the foolish English, but the Maharaja still commands the loyalty of the people.  I will need both.”

*** *** ***

An hour later, Cecilia blinked.

Her mind cleared.  Where… where was she?

The young woman looked about.  She… she was in the library.  Standing in the fiction section.  Right where she should be.

Cecilia frowned, confused.  She thought she saw a distant memory, already dissolving in her mind.  In that memory, a beautiful Indian woman was commanding her, controlling her, then saying, “ _…you will forget,_ sahiba _…  …you will forget…  …you will forget…_ ”

And then, the memory was completely gone.  Cecilia blinked again, and the voice disappeared from her mind completely.  And yet, she had the odd sensation one feels when wakes from a dream they can’t remember.

Someone politely coughed from behind Cecilia.

Adi stood there, looking at Cecilia fearfully.

“What is it?” the Englishwoman asked.

“You…” said Adi, then seemed to reconsider his statement.  “Nothing,” he muttered.

“Let’s get back to work, shall we?” Cecilia said brightly.

*** *** ***

As usual, the banquet hall was filled with palace guests when suppertime came.  The Maharaja did not make an appearance.

Feeling oddly out-of-sorts, Cecilia sat next to Clement, who was intently listening to his fellow Englishmen gossiping.  The meal had yet to be served.

“Did you hear?” said one man.  “There was a riot in Jhansi Market, earlier this morning.”

“Something’s stirred up the locals,” agreed another fellow.

“Well, the Jhansi people had better settle, if they know what’s good for them,” a bureaucrat’s wife said darkly.  “Or else that Mr. Turpin will call out the soldiers from the Fort, see if he doesn’t!”

Clement scowled into his empty plate.  Concerned, Cecilia placed a hand on his arm.

Her husband forced a thin smile.  “The city is restless,” he told her softly.  “Our fellow Englishmen don’t seem to realize how volatile the situation really is.”

But then the reporter took Cecilia’s and kissed it.  “But at least,” he said gratefully, “I have you here with me.  That’s all I need.”

The young Englishwoman blushed, then smiled.  She couldn’t resist planting a small kiss on her husband’s cheek.

The kitchen servants appeared, bearing trays with steaming food.  The guests smiled and nodded to one another, anticipating the feast.

But in that moment, Cecilia’s mind went blank.  She dropped the napkin she’d lifted from the table.

“Darling?” Clement asked her, puzzled.

“I have to go,” Cecilia said plainly.

Her husband smiled, confused.  “Darling, they’re only bringing-“

“I have to go,” repeated Cecilia.  She stood and left the hall, without so much as a look back at the astonished Clement.

*** *** ***

High in the Royal Chambers, the Grand High Maharaja of Jhansi and the Kingdoms of Ajmer and Jaipur, His Royal Excellency Vanasur Daityas Garuda Sanga III, He Who Was Without Mortal Equal, reclined in his pleasure couch.  He was in a sour mood.

Normally, a visit to his harem would cheer the young Indian monarch.  After all, his pleasure-women, the _Shaaheenartak_ , were all there, each doing their best to lure him into her bed.  Satisfying the Maharaja gave a pleasure-woman momentarily status within Ratiramshree, and thus the competition was fierce.

“My lord, you look so handsome today,” purred Faatina, making sure to bow low and display her deep cleavage.

“Oh, my lord, I had a dream about you last night,” Madanamancuka interjected, hurrying to kneel before the couch.  She lowered her eyelids.  “You were king in my bed, a royal tiger.  **_Mmmm…_** ”

“Perhaps you could enjoy one of my massages, master,” suggested Talakaksi, sliding her hands seductively over her own backside.  “I have new oils, that will delight your skin under my tender hands…”

The Maharaja sighed, flitting his gaze over each of the concubines.  All of them aroused him, yet none seemed worthy of his time.  Perhaps the pleasure of a naked woman was not what he sought?

His Royal Majesty was troubled.  His ministers had reported that Jhansi was not reacting well at all to English occupation.  The slaughtered elephants had pushed an already-simmering city even farther to chaos.  And yet, the English seemed indifferent – or even contemptuous – of their conquered subjects.

 _If only General Laksurimanan had not failed!_ the Maharaja thought ruefully.  His Majesty had personally given twenty thousand _rupees_ to the general’s cause, and if the English discovered **_that_** , no doubt he would be thrown into the deepest dungeon of Jhansi Fort.  These were dangerous times.

“Your Highness,” a palace butler said, making a forbidden entrance into the harem’s inner chambers.

Immediately, the pleasure-women squealed indignantly, hurriedly covering up their barely-clad bodies.

“ ** _You dare?_** ” roared the Maharaja, outraged.

The butler fell prostrate to the ground.  “Please, a thousand apologies, master!” he groveled.  “I… I…”

“ ** _Speak!_** ”

“Master,” gasped the wretched man, “I had no choice but to enter.  You see…”

“ ** _Well?_** ” snarled the Maharaja, reaching for his dagger.

“The Esteemed Mister Turpin,” wailed the butler.  “He is here, master.  He insists on seeing you.  Now.”

The Maharaja paused.  Turpin?  That English **_worm?_**   He dared to enter the Maharaja’s private chambers?

And yet… Turpin was not a man with which to trifle.  The Indian prince feared Queen Victoria’s envoy, and for good reason.  One gesture from Turpin, and the Maharaja could be shot.  It was not wise to provoke such a powerful, arrogant man.

“See him in,” growled the Maharaja.

The pleasure-women gasped at this intrusion.

“Silence!” bellowed their master.  He sat upright, hurriedly adjusting his turban.

*** *** ***

Cecilia and Mr. Turpin were ushered through the Maharaja’s private sanctum, finally passing through a pair of iron doors.  They were inside the central parlor of the harem.

The two English glanced about, taking in a sight no Westerner had ever seen before.  The parlor was an enormous circular chamber, perhaps modeled after the forums of ancient Greece.  The center floor was sunken, and the walls lined with lush pleasure-couches, replete with cushions.  Doors around the walls led off to smaller, private rooms.  The room was dimly-lit, and smelled of erotic incense.

The Maharaja sat on the largest couch, staring down at his two English guests with a look of distain on his regal face.  Cecilia noted the other couches held about ten young Indian women, all unspeakably beautiful, all wearing very, very little on their svelte bodies.  Two hulking eunuch bodyguards stood on either side of the Maharaja, glaring down at the English with blazing eyes.

“Forgive this intrusion, your Majesty,” Mr. Turpin said, bowing slightly.  “But I have secured a gift for you, a gift that could not wait.”

The Royal Envoy moved behind Cecilia, his hands slipping off the light robe that she wore.  As the garment fell away, all could see that Cecilia was once again dressed as an exotic dancer.  This time, her costume was smaller and more revealing than ever.  The necklace with the purple pendant hung about her throat.

The Maharaja, despite himself, flicked an appreciable eye over her body.

“I’ve been thinking…” Mr. Turpin said conversationally.  “Your Majesty, the tensions between your people and mine are becoming too strained.  It is my hope that this gift…“ – and here he gestured to Cecilia – “…will be a gesture of good faith.  From me, personally, to you.”

The Maharaja frowned, suspicious.  “I thought you English did not approve of slavery.”

“We don’t,” Mr. Turpin admitted.  “But… in this special instance… I saw to it that a rare exception was made.”

The other pleasure-women, realizing that they were facing a new and physically flawless competitor, narrowed their eyes and simmered.  Cecilia could feel their vengeful stares.

“This young woman was captured in the Mediterranean, by North African slavers, I believe,” Mr. Turpin lied.  “I have such contacts from my prior assignments; its best not to ask me about those details, your Majesty.  But in their power, this young woman has been subject to mind-altering drugs, and now has no will of her own.”  He smiled grandly.  “She will obey your slightest whims, sire.”

The Maharaja said nothing, his face unreadable.

Cecilia, carefully maintaining a pleasant expression, watched the Indian prince closely.  Re-hypnotized, the young Englishwoman completely believed she was a pleasure-slave, gladly ready to give her body to her new master.  She was eager for service.

But of course, when she and the Maharaja were alone, the tables would be turned.  Then new commands would become active in Cecilia’s mind.  She had to get the Indian prince alone, somehow.

“I have plenty of women,” the Maharaja said cruelly, clearly suspicious of Mr. Turpin.  “A new one is just another mouth to feed.”

“Well…” said Mr. Turpin, caught off-guard.  “Well, you see, your Majesty, this young lady… well, she…”

“Take her away,” commanded the Maharaja.

The English envoy rubbed his elephant-head cane nervously.  Like Cecilia, he had been programmed to complete their mission.  His hypnosis-controlled mind couldn’t imagine what to do next.

“Take her away,” the Maharaja repeated, an edge in his voice.

The two bodyguards reached for their sword hilts.

Cecilia took a step forward.  “My lord,” she said, curtseying, “please let me tell you why I must remain with you.”

The Maharaja shifted in his seat.  “Speak,” he bid.

Thinking fast, Cecilia said, “I am the Lady Regina Heartstone, master.  My father is an English lord in Queen Victoria’s Parliament.  He has no idea that I was taken prisoner and that my thoughts were altered to become your slave.”

Surprised, the Maharaja leaned forward.  “You are English aristocrat?” he asked, skeptical.

“I am, master,” Cecilia curtseyed again.  “Of course, before I was kidnapped, I would never have wanted to become your love-slave.  But now, my mind has been affected, and I have no will but yours.”  She bowed submissively.

“There is another thing, master,” the young woman added, stepping forward.  “I should tell you that all children I will bear will immediately be English lords or ladies, members of the highest British aristocracy.”

Slowly and deliberately, Cecilia began stripping off her dancer’s top, exposing her full breasts.  “If I were to bear **_your children_** , master…”  (She paused for effect.)  “…you would be the father of an English lord.  With all ranks and privileges.”

The Maharaja was staring at Cecilia in wonder now.  He sat upright and uncrossed his legs.

“ ** _Everyone out!_** ” he bellowed.

In a flash, the other pleasure-women, the guards, the servants, and Mr. Turpin all vanished.  The Maharaja eagerly gestured to Cecilia, and she came willingly.

*** *** ***

Approaching the Indian prince, Cecilia found herself beginning to dance.  She was hypnotized to believe that she was the most skilled of exotic dancers, of course, and now was a moment to demonstrate her skill.

Standing less than a yard before the Maharaja, Cecilia swayed back and forth on her hips, back and forth.  Her hands became alive, wriggling in the air as she moved them up over her head in a graceful arc.  Her exposed breasts rose and fell as she breathed.

His Royal Majesty stared, unable to look at anything but the sinful woman dancing before him.

Cecilia smiled to herself, allowing her eyelids to close.  Her red lips parted, just slightly.  As her shoulders began to sway, she lifted the little dancer’s top up over her head, then carelessly tossed it aside.  She was nude from the waist up… save for the pendant she wore.

“ _Bhagavaan se…!_ ” the Prince murmured.

“Do I please you, master?” moaned Cecilia.

Not waiting for an answer, she extended both arms far from her body, as if they were boughs of a tree.  Her hips shimmied in quick, vibrating motion, which allowed her belly to dance all on its own.  Cecilia’s stomach was toned and flat, but the Maharaja could clearly see her muscles expand and contract.

The belly-dancing continued and Cecilia inched closer.

“I **_want_** you, master,” she said softly.

The dazzled Maharaja seemed to come out of his own trance.  In one motion, he threw off his turban, allowing the thickly-wrapped cloth to come undone as it bounced on the floor.  Then, with swift, clumsy movements, he tore open his own Achkan jacket, hurriedly pulling it off his round shoulders.

Cecilia knelt, her thin fingers unworking his Western belt.  She could feel his erect member straining beneath the trousers; its firmness excited her.

With some improvised acrobatics, the prince and dancer had soon undressed one another.  Cecilia’s slim, white body almost shone in the dim oil-light.

“Lie back, master,” she whispered, gently pushing the Maharaja back onto the couch.

Normally, the ruler of Jhansi would fly into a rage if anyone – **_anyone_** – dared tell him what to do.  But Cecilia’s beauty and luscious body bewitched him.  He reclined, momentarily wishing his own body wasn’t so pudgy.

Cecilia didn’t care.  She lay atop him, lovingly kissing his chest and neck.  As his hands wormed up her body to embrace her breasts, she whimpered in delight, just a little.  She was very aroused.

The Maharaja was breathing quickly.  Cecilia could feel his erect cock pressing against her pelvis; it was already dribbling with anticipation.

“ ** _Tell me,_** ” she breathed, moving her mouth to his ear.  “ ** _Tell me what you want._** ”

“I want to fuck you,” he gasped without hesitation.

Where His Royal Highness learned an English obscenity like “fuck,” Cecilia never learned, but his words made her even crazier with desire.

“Yes, master,” she moaned, rising up.  She sat across his hips.

Allowing the Maharaja to play with her breasts, Cecilia lifted her body upward, then guided the Royal cock into her wet vagina.  The thick, fat organ slid into her as if designed to fit exactly.  Oh, it felt **_wonderful_**.  Cecilia moaned again, and closed her eyes.

That first penetration felt like an angel’s kiss for both lovers.  When the Maharaja was fully extended inside her, Cecilia simply remained there, savoring the feeling of that fat penis **_filling_** her so completely.  It was divine.

Well, almost divine.  The Englishwoman rocked up, just a little, then descended.  She felt the Maharaja brush her clit, just with the right pleasure.  She wanted more.

So much more…!

Now Cecilia was bobbing up and down, up and down, up and down.  Her brown hair bounced in the air, freed from the ribbons she’d hastily tied earlier.  Her vagina sang with delight.  She wanted more, more **_more!_**

And yet… her legs were tense.  Cecilia looked down.

While she had begun to ride the Maharaja, her hands, all on their own, had reached up and grasped the necklace she wore.  Without any instruction from her mind, they lifted the thin strand of gold over her head.  She was now holding just the purple stone in her fingers.

The Maharaja grunted in pleasure.  He lifted his own hips, willing his penis to thrust deeper into Cecilia.  While he still groped her breasts, he was losing concentration to the orgasm building in his loins.

Cecilia was in the throes of passion, too.  And yet, she found herself holding the pendant before the Maharaja’s sweating face.

“Look at this, master,” her voice said.

Her hips were trembling now.  She could feel her own chemical pleasure begin to blossom.  Her orgasm would be massive, she could tell.

Almost cross-eyed, the Maharaja looked up into the pendant.  Instantly, his gaze was captured.  The rest of his body kept thrusting into Cecilia.

“Now, master,” Cecilia heard herself say, “you will climax inside me… and then your mind will surrender **_to me_**.”

“Unngh,” grunted the Maharaja, not understanding.

Cecilia closed her own eyes again.  She was close.  Oh, she was soooo close…!  She wanted to taste that pleasure so badly…!

But something compelled her to resist, if only for a little longer.

“Climax now!” she barked, slapping the Maharaja’s belly with her spare hand.

The Indian prince cried out in surprise, and then his hips bucked.  Cecilia was nearly thrown off.

The Maharaja’s thrusting rhythm changed, losing speed but gaining power.  He was climaxing.  With little snarls of happiness and laughter, he pumped all of his manhood into Cecilia’s waiting chamber, loving each and every sensation.

Meanwhile, Cecilia was still on the edge of her own pleasure.  She could nearly taste it…  Nearly…!  Nearly…!

With one last push, the Maharaja finished.  His back arched, then relaxed.  Cecilia, through half-closed lids, watched him carefully…

The prince’s face drained of all expression.  He was mindless now.

She had him!

That did it.  The rush of sexual exercise and mental power was too much for Cecilia to bear any more.  She felt her nerves overload as she exploded into orgasm herself.

“Ohhhhhhhh…!” the young woman cried out, still riding up and down on the Maharaja’s penis.  Now, celebrating her feminine pleasures, she pressed harder against the cock, making sure to enjoy every last second of stimulation.

Cecilia’s orgasm was like a tidal wave, striking with great force, but receding quickly.  Before she knew it, the young Englishwoman was flopped down on the Maharaja’s body, and she was gasping for air.  Her own body felt wonderful, like it had been bathed in the ether of the universe.  She felt tingling in her fingers and toes.  The sensation made her giggle.

For a few minutes, Cecilia lay there, using the motionless prince as her bed.  She smiled in triumph.

“And now,” she said to the Maharaja, “you will dress and come with me.  And I will introduce you to your new master.”

“I obey, mistress,” the prince replied tonelessly.

*** *** ***


	8. The Great Plan

It took skill and guile to smuggle the Maharaja through his own palace.  Cecilia ordered the man to dress in a servant’s uniform – luckily there were plenty to spare in the harem – and then to throw a blanket over the Royal head and shoulders.  When he slouched and lowered his head, it wasn’t possible to detect the Maharaja’s princely manner… Cecilia hoped.  She covered her own nudity with her discarded robe.

And then the two made their escape.  His Royal Highness shuffled along behind Cecilia, looking only at the tiled floors as they moved.  Because it was late in the evening, most guests and servants were in the lower floors; the two were able to steal down to Mr. Turpin’s suite.

Waiting in the massive luxury apartment was Tanvi, Mr. Azad, and the Royal Envoy himself.  Tanvi broke into a wide smile when Cecilia entered, her latest catch in tow.

“He was easy to enslave, mistress,” Cecilia reported, handing over the magic pendant.

Delighted, the Indian woman pulled the blanket from the Maharaja’s slumped frame.  “Excellent, _sahiba_ , excellent!” she exclaimed, her eyes dancing.  “You have succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.  I am most pleased.”

“Thank you, mistress,” Cecilia blushed.  The hypnosis that enslaved her commanded her to see Tanvi as nothing less than a goddess who must always be obeyed.  Praise from the goddess made her spirit soar.

“Yes, most pleased…!” Tanvi repeated, now inspecting her latest prize closely.

The Maharaja, like Mr. Turpin, stood completely still, his expression and mind blank.  Under the power of the crystal, he could do nothing until commanded.

Openly gloating, Tanvi let out a low chuckle.

“Mistress,” warned Cecilia, “I was able to smuggle the Maharaja from his private quarters.  But soon, his guards will realize-“

“That he is missing, yes,” the Indian hypnotist agreed.  “They will search the entire palace.  We only have him for a limited time.”

Mr. Azad stepped forward.  “Then it is time to implement the plan?” he asked anxiously.

“It is time,” confirmed Tanvi.  “But I think we will revise the plan.  I have broader ambitions now.”

Stiffening, Mr. Azad said, “Oh?”  His voice was cold.

The beautiful Indian woman flashed an angry glare.  “You object, Azad?  You question my decisions?”

“General,” said Mr. Azad patiently, “you **_promised_** that I was to become the new Maharaja of Jhansi.  I have followed all of your instructions, and-“

“Yes, yes,” Tanvi interrupted.  “And you will be rewarded.  Have faith.  But I have a more pressing need for you.”

Mr. Azad’s mouth thinned.

“I have been questioning your master extensively,” Tanvi said, now moving to stand before the immobile Mr. Turpin.  “He is vile and corrupt, as you told me.  But he also has numerous friends in Queen Victoria’s government.  Several in Parliament.  We can use that.”

“What are you planning?”

“We shall travel to London,” said Tanvi, using a grand tone.  “Using Cecilia as our secret erotic weapon, we will hypnotize these government men, one-by-one.  We will build a network of brainwashed slaves, all in Victoria’s court.  And when the time is right…”  She snapped her fingers.  “I will seize power.”

Mr. Azad gasped.  “That…” he reeled, “that is too ambitious, General!”

“Heh,” Tanvi sneered.  “The pendant gives me complete control over my victims.  Wielded properly, it has no limits.  Observe…”

To the entranced Cecilia, Mr. Turpin, and Maharaja, Tanvi bellowed, “Slaves!  Remove all of your clothes!  Now!”

Cecilia’s hands immediately slipped her robe off her shoulders, completely exposing her nude body.  Beside her, Mr. Turpin and the Maharaja were obediently stripping off their clothes.

“You see?” said Tanvi plainly.  “If I wished it, I could command these fools to gouge out their own eyes with a spoon.  They have no will of their own.  They are mine.”

“But the British court…” Mr. Azad said, worried.  “There are hundreds of dignitaries under Queen Victoria!  How could you possibly mesmerize and control so many?”

“It can be done,” Tanvi said confidently, watching Mr. Turpin and the Maharaja shed the last of their clothes.  “Do you not remember how I hypnotized the local warlords, right here in India?  How else was I to unite them?  How else could I command their armies to rise up against the British?”

“The Uprising failed,” Mr. Azad reminded her.

“It failed only because my hypnotized commanders possessed too few troops,” snapped Tanvi.  “The British poured **_thousands_** of soldiers into India to stop me!  How was I to combat that?”

She stared off, into the past.  “That was why I created the persona of General Laksurimanan.  Under hypnosis, my warlords were convinced that Laksurimanan actually existed, and would rally their troops in battle.  But when the Uprising collapsed…”  Tanvi’s voice grew soft and wounded.  “When I failed to save India, I had no choice but to flee.  Everyone was searching the battlefields for the body of General Laksurimanan.  No-one noticed me, a mere servant woman, escaping among the flood of desperate refugees.”

“You **_are_** General Laksurimanan,” Mr. Azad insisted.  “You are the Great Leader who will free India from the British yoke.”

The beautiful woman’s eyes flashed once again.  “No.  The General was never real.  But I will free my beloved India, **_I swear it._** ”  She lifted her head higher.  “I will simply do what I did before.  Using the pendant and now with Cecilia as my white dancing-girl, I will hypnotize the leaders of the British Empire.  I will control their minds.  And when I rule all of Britannia…  Well, then we will all see a new world.”

Cecilia listened to every word with a detached interest.  Her befuddled mind understood everything that Tanvi said, yet some strange force prevented the young Englishwoman from caring in the slightest.  She was to be used as a tool to enslave her own people?  That seemed… unremarkable.

Tanvi paced before the naked Mr. Turpin and Maharaja.  Both men stood motionless, their arms at their sides, their expressions vacant.  Unlike Cecilia, neither had a body which was particularly attractive in the nude.

“I will require a large house, one near Parliament, one I can use as a power center,” Tanvi mused, absently tapping her fingertips together.  “That will be your first task, Azad.  Find me such a house.”

“But… General…” protested the tall manservant.  “I have no such experience in these manners.”

“You know the English people, no?” Tanvi countered, scowling.  “You went to an upper-class English university.  You’ll know how to solve this problem for me.”

“I would need money, in British pounds,” said Mr. Azad weakly.

The hypnotist nodded, then moved to stand before the blank-faced Mr. Turpin.  “Tell me, slave,” she said contemptuously, “how might you get me thousands of British pounds?”

Without hesitation, Mr. Turpin replied, “I can get that for you, mistress.”

“How?” demanded Tanvi.

“I am about to exploit Jhansi, mistress,” the hypnotized fool said.  “I have issued orders for the British soldiers to seize the tea-warehouses under a falsified pretense.  I am planning to ship the tea to Singapore and sell it to black market traders.  The profit would be all mine.  I have arranged the same to happen to Jhansi’s copper trade.  And I have also hired some British mercenaries who will raid the Maharaja’s treasuries.  The Maharaja is a fool, he deserves to be robbed blind.  All of his monies can be converted to pounds with a friend of mine at the Chancellor of the Exchequer in London, where-“

Tanvi laughed, a cruel sound.  “You see, Azad?” she chortled.  “Your master’s lack of scruples will be our biggest asset.  Money will be of no concern.”

Mr. Azad, clearly worried, shifted his weight on his heels.  “I must point out, general…  Your plan has a fatal flaw.”

Tanvi sighed angrily.

“Queen Victoria,” continued the manservant.  “She sits on the British throne.  She wields enormous power, and you will **_never_** be able to isolate her to be hypnotized.  That I assure you.”

“You’re correct,” Tanvi agreed.

Mr. Azad’s face twitched.  “Then…”

“The heir to Queen Victoria is a man?” asked the beautiful hypnotist.

Mr. Azad was silent.

“Tell me, slave,” Tanvi demanded, speaking to Mr. Turpin.

“You are correct, mistress,” the Royal Envoy said blankly.

“You see?” Tanvi said to Mr. Azad.  “All men are pigs, driven by their sexual lusts.  This heir, whomever he is, will not be able to resist Cecilia.  Once he is mine, we will assassinate the Queen.”

For once, a flicker of alarm danced within Cecilia’s tranquilized thoughts.  **_Assassinate the Queen?_**

“How?” gaped Mr. Azad, startled.

“I already have the assassin,” Tanvi said easily.

She gestured to the far end of the expansive suite.  “Slave!” she bellowed.  “Join us!”

Across the enormous sitting-room, another man stood and approached.  Cecilia had not noticed him earlier, but now as he drew near, she could tell this fellow was under the same hypnotic spell that she was; he moved without purpose, as if sleepwalking.

The man was Clement.

Poor Clement!  The young reporter’s face, normally alive with delight or wonder, was now washed of any emotion.  His dull eyes stared straight ahead.

“This man is an acclaimed journalist,” Tanvi patiently explained.  “He has conducted interviews with the Queen in the past; he can petition to do so again.”  She smiled grimly.  “And once he is in the same room as Her Majesty…  Well, I don’t care how he kills her.”

*** *** ***

Clement failed to react to any of these horrible words.  Cecilia, knowing the power of the crystal herself, understood only too well how helpless he was in its hideous embrace.

Thoughts slowly began to turn in Cecilia’s slumbering mind.  Clement, the murderer of Queen Victoria!  Oh, he would be hated all around the world once Victoria’s blood was on his hands!  Despised!  Remembered in the same breath with Judas Iscariot or Brutus!  Such infamy would follow Clement into the afterlife, no matter how hypnotized he might be.  The poor man would be condemned to an eternity in Hades, no doubt.

A great, fat tear appeared in Cecilia’s eye.  As her mind began realizing the scope of Clement’s doom, the tear rolled down her cheek.

*** *** ***

“Listen!” hissed Tanvi, holding up a hand.  She had failed to notice Cecilia’s expression.

The Indian hypnotist tilted her head, and suddenly all in the suite could hear:  the distant voices of men, shouting, coming closer.

“That is the palace guard,” Mr. Azad said tightly.  “They are searching for the Maharaja.”

“They’re on the lower floors,” agreed Tanvi.  “But they will be here soon.  I will have to program His Majesty quickly.”

“How does he fit into your plans?” asked Mr. Azad nervously.

“Just before my coup in London,” replied the Indian woman, “the Maharaja will lead a second Uprising here in Jhansi.  It will fail, of course, but it will serve to distract the British at the crucial moment.”

She moved to stand before the Maharaja, holding the pendant before his eyes.  “Stare into this, my lord,” she commanded.  “Stare into this and fall even deeper under my control…”

Helpless, the Maharaja obeyed.  His face grew slack.

*** *** ***

Just feet away, Cecilia felt a sting in her palms.  As Tanvi had spoken, the Englishwoman’s hands had curled up into tight little fists.  Now her nails were biting into her own flesh.  Anger was somehow bubbling up through the hypnotic fog that gripped her mind.

Tanvi was a thoroughly evil woman.  Her mastery of the purple crystal had corrupted her into seeing all people as tools to be abused for her own whims.  She would go on hypnotizing all those who could be useful to her.  Mr. Turpin would facilitate the enslavement of the British Empire.  Clement would be her dagger against the Queen.  And Cecilia?  Cecilia would be her whore, both to seduce her own countrymen, and then for Tanvi’s sexual delights in the bedroom.

A world where Tanvi was the master of all would be a hell for everyone, everywhere.  No doubt it would end in bloody wars all around the globe as Tanvi’s lust for power expanded.

And Clement…?  Cecilia choked back a sob.  Clement would be her first and grisliest sacrificial victim.  The world would never know the truth behind his wicked actions.

“No!” Cecilia screamed aloud.

Tanvi and Mr. Azad stared at her.

“Cecilia!” the beautiful hypnotist barked.  “Sleep, now!”

Cecilia felt a powerful urge to close her eyes, to surrender.  She nearly collapsed onto the floor.

“No!” she shrieked again, and somehow stamped her bare foot against the stone floor.

The pain in her heel did something to jolt her mind back into the present.  Suddenly Cecilia was aware of her arms, her legs, her whole body.  She gasped with surprise.

“She’s free!” Mr. Azad said, alarmed.

In a flash, Cecilia knew what she had to do.  With a single leap, she flew across the room, her fingers outstretched.

Too late, Tanvi saw the danger.

Cecilia grabbed the pendant, ripping it from the Indian woman’s grasp.  The thin chain of gold broke with an audible _snap!_

In the bustle, Cecilia landed on her bad knee.  She tumbled, knocking both herself and the Maharaja to the ground.

“Give me that!” cried Tanvi, reaching for the pendant.

Mr. Azad drew a long dagger from his belt.

Trying to ignore the shooting pain in her knee, Cecilia scrambled to her feet.  Her head spun.  A great part of her still wanted to obey her mistress, to do whatever Tanvi ordered, no matter what.

But the Englishwoman’s heart pounded.  Her breath came in short, desperate gasps.  Unidentifiable emotions rushed through her soul at frightening speeds.

“ ** _Give me that pendant, slave!_** ” Tanvi shouted.  She snatched the knife from Mr. Azad’s hand, then rounded on the shaking Cecilia.

“No…!” the former ballerina moaned.

“ ** _I command you!_** ” demanded Tanvi.  Her strong arm shot out, and an ironlike hand was soon clamped onto Cecilia’s forearm.  The dagger’s blade moved toward Cecilia’s throat…

Realizing all was lost, Cecilia did the only thing she could.

She hurled the pendant against the wall with all her strength.  The tiny purple stone flew through the air, twinkling in the dim oil-lamps.

Then, striking a stone column, the pendant shattered into a thousand pieces.

“ ** _NO!!!_** ” shrieked Tanvi, her voice a wail of despair and rage.

The Indian woman released Cecilia, rushing to the spot where the pendant had once been.  Now, there was little more than a faint purple mist, vanishing into the air.

The dagger clattered to the ground.

Cecilia sprawled back onto the stone floor.  Her knee throbbed in horrible pain, and her body was cold and uncomfortable.

But her thoughts were clear.  The fog of hypnotism was gone.  She was free!

Clement, Mr. Turpin, and the Maharaja were also blinking, their faces coming alive.

“General!” cried Mr. Azad, realizing the pendant’s spell was broken.  “General!”

But Tanvi was paying no attention.  The Indian woman knelt on the floor, frantically feeling for even the tiniest shard of the crystal.  Her voice was a mixture of feeble cries and wordless fury.

“General!” shouted Mr. Azad again.

“I say…” Clement mumbled, putting one hand to his head.  “Where…  Where am I?”

“My word!” blustered Mr. Turpin, looking down at his nude body in horror and shame.

Cecilia groaned, trying to rise to her feet.  Her knee throbbed, racked with pain.  The old wound was torn again.

Across the suite, Tanvi’s head snapped up.  Her eyes narrowed in seething rage.  **_“You!”_** she hissed at Cecilia.

The Englishwoman, gripping a nearby table, pulled herself onto her feet.  Her balance was shaky.

Everything happened at once.  Tanvi sprang forward, snatching up the dagger from where it lay.  With a tigress’s bloodlust, she rushed at Cecilia.

Clement cried out, trying to reach his wife.

Mr. Azad grabbed him, throwing the confused reporter to the ground.

And Cecilia, her heart flooded with adrenaline, turned and ran.  Her knee screamed in agony.

*** *** ***

Somehow, the young Englishwoman made it out of the suite and into the wide corridor.  She startled three servant girls, who dropped their folded linens and screamed in panic.

Cecilia ignored the girls.  She could hear Tanvi’s shoes pounding on the stone behind her; the vengeful hypnotist would be upon her in seconds.

Still naked and limping badly, Cecilia turned and ran towards the Grand Staircase.  She could hear distant voices in that direction.

And then, a heavy weight struck her in the back.  Cecilia sprawled across the floor, scraping her skin in a dozen places.  Her chin banged against the stone especially hard.

A cruel hand seized her arm, wrenching her onto her back.  And Tanvi was kneeling over her, pressing her powerful leg against Cecilia’s stomach.  She was pinned.

“Oh, little _sahiba_ ,” Tanvi spat, her eyes wild.  “You have **_no idea_** how much you have hurt my people today.  I could stab you once, to finish you in seconds.”  She drew the knife to Cecilia’s throat.  “But instead, I will make you **_suffer_**.  I shall peel the skin from your flesh, and then peel the **_flesh from your bones_**.  Your agony-“

Cecilia grabbed Tanvi’s dagger wrist with both hands.  Her strength was fading, but she pushed back as hard as she could.

“ ** _HELP!!!_** ” she screamed at the same time.  “ ** _HELP!!!  THE MAHARAJA!!!  THEY’VE GOT THE MAHARAJA A PRISONER UP HERE!!!_** ”

Instantly, the sound of heavy boots began approaching from the bottom of the staircase.

“ ** _You filthy cunt!_** ” shrieked Tanvi, trying even harder to plunge the knife into Cecilia’s neck.

It took every ounce of strength the Englishwoman had to push back.  Her arms trembled.  It was hard to breathe.  Her body and knee screamed in excruciating pain.

The tip of the dagger jutted forward, just enough to puncture Cecilia’s skin, just a little.  She screamed again.

And then, there were the alarmed cries of men, not thirty feet away.  The soldiers had charged up the staircase, and now they were bearing down on the two struggling woman.

Tanvi wordlessly screeched in frustration and defeat.  With one last yell of hatred, she released the dagger, leapt to her feet, and then fled.

The last thing Cecilia saw before she blacked out was the curious faces of the palace bodyguards, assuming a defensive huddle over her.

*** *** ***


	9. Epilogue

The aftershocks of what had happened were felt immediately.

The Maharaja, released from Tanvi’s evil magic, was immediately whisked back to his private chambers.  The palace guard did not understand what had happened, and all English guests of Ratiramshree were quite rudely put under house arrest, at least for a time.

Inflaming the situation was that the Maharaja remembered **_everything_** he had overheard while under Tanvi’s spell.  He now knew of Mr. Turpin’s corrupt plans for Jhansi.  Worse, it was confirmed to him that the English held him and his court in utter contempt.  An insulted king becomes a dangerous adversary.

As for Mr. Turpin, he too, realized how exposed he was in the aftermath of the scandal.  All the lies and threats he’s whispered in the ear of his Indian hosts were worthless now.  His power over Ratiramshree Palace crumbled overnight.

But far worse for the old racist was the memories he now had.  After spending a lifetime of regarding the Indians as an inferior race, Mr. Turpin could now vividly recall saying “Yes, mistress” to an Indian **_woman_**.  He remembered that overwhelming desire to obey her, no matter what the command.  Such thoughts were too much for his arrogant worldview, and he was overcome.

Within a month, Mr. Turpin submitted his resignation to the Crown.  He slunk back to Bombay, and was not heard from since.

And the city of Jhansi?  Things were very tense for the rest of 1858.  The English, rattled by the mysterious affair, did better in hiding their aristocratic nature.  And the Indians cooled their more rebellious passions.

But things were never quite the same again.

*** *** ***

As for Clement and Cecilia, the adventure had only brought them closer together.

The young couple decided to return to London almost immediately.  Clement no longer felt safe in the streets of the city, and besides, Cecilia’s poor knee needed surgery.  They made arrangements to depart the very next day.

At the Jhansi Railway Station, the young Englishwoman waited patiently, leaning slightly on the elephant-head cane that Mr. Turpin had abandoned.  She was dressed in her travel clothes, and watched the porters carefully load her trunk into the passenger train’s compartment.

“Darling!” Clement called out, behind her.

Her husband was at her side in a flash.  “Here,” he said, “I have the tickets.  Two seats in Passenger Car Four, Compartment One.  You’ll even have a window seat.”

“Thank you, dearest,” Cecilia smiled.

“How do you feel?” asked Clement.  Concern rippled across his expression.  “Are you in pain?”

“Some,” allowed Cecilia.  She put a gentle hand on Clement’s skinny chest.  “But I’ll be just fine.”

The train conductors blew their whistles.  Boarding was starting.

“Come, come,” Clement said, offering his arm.  “Take it easy, now.”

“I’ll be fine!” Cecilia chided.

A few ginger steps confirmed that she would be fine, indeed.

“Well, back to London so soon,” her husband remarked, trying to distract her with conversation.  “I hear this summer there was a record heat wave… but that also means the gardens along the Thames will still be in bloom by the time we get home.  Isn’t that **_exciting?_** ”

Despite herself, Cecilia laughed.  “Yes, darling,” she agreed.  “Very exciting, indeed.”

She smiled up at him again.  Clement was a good man.  He loved her so much.  And she loved him.

It was all she needed.

*** *** ***


End file.
